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WIND-HARP SONGS 

by y 

J. William Lloyd 



The poets are thus liberating gods. The ancient 
British bards had for the title of their order, "Those 
who are free throughout the world." They are free, 
and they make free. EMERSON, The Poet. 

The poet has a new thought ; he has a whole new 
experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with 
him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune. 

Ibid. 

The poet also resigns himself to his mood. 

Ibid. 



AUTHOR'S EDITION 



BUFFALO 

THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY 

1895 




\^5 



Copyright, 1895, 
by J. William Lloyd. 



PRINTED AND BOUND BV 

THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY, 

BUFFALO, N. Y. 



DEDICATED TO 

THE 

FREE SPIRIT 



FORE WORD 

Songs of my winged-thoughts, of life, nature, love, 
and liberty ; composed not for the public, but my own 
pleasure, — on the plains, in the forest, in the •wake of 
the plow, on horseback, on the crowded street, by the 
bedside of death, in the storm, the silence of midnight, 
and when the face of the God of Morning blushed 
through the golden tresses of Dawn. 

The fire burned within, the flames sang, and the 
free winds fanned them to music. 

From the harp of fire, with the wind's touch, came 
these, and the writing of them was my joy and 
easement. 

I have no apology. 

Poetry is not to be excused. Like music it is a glory 
or an offence. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Dedication 3 

Fore Word 5 

Proem n 

The Wind-Harp Song .... 13 
The Wish of Womanhood . . . .17 

In Touch 17 

Aphorism : Woman 17 

My Dead 18 

The Soul Supreme ..... 20 

Cupid 21 

Freedom 21 

I Am Glad — Are Not You? ... 22 

Only a Memory 23 

My Lady Gentle Wonderful . . 24 
The Greek Anthology . . . .25 

True Love 26 

Death's Word 27 

Mother 28 

Emily Dickenson 31 

Remember 32 

The Smell of Rain-Wet Earth . . 33 

The Moon-Shark 33 

Mount Walt Whitman . . .34 

Robert Bloomfield .... 36 

Aztec of the Air 36 

Poetry 37 

The Day-Birth 38 

The White Swan of Winter . 38 

Aphorism : Mystery 38 



CONTENTS. 



A Wild Tiger-Lily 

I Love My Love in the Morning 

The Whoop-Crane's Clangor 

The Mock-Bird 

Women Poets 

The Hospital at Night 
Aphorism: Life .... 
The Gods Are Dead 

Cleopatra 

Storm-Heart . 

By Mouths of Sea Worms Quaintly 

Carven 

The Voice of the Turtle 
A Little Rambling Rill 

No Flag 

Aphorism : Love of Others 
Sonnet to a White Lady . 
Desert Voicbs .... 
Autumn .... 

Ingle-Low 

Aphorism : Key of Pleasure 
Wild Roses and Maiden Hair 
Nature and I Are Glad 

Reverie 

Cherry Blossoms 
Aphorism : Luck in Love 
Hail, Comrade ! . . . 
"Liberty Enlightening the \\ 
My Women .... 
A Winter Morning Walk 
A Fair Woman's Hair 
Storm Lesson .... 
Aphorism : Genius 
My Witch Flames 



orld 



PAGE 

39 
. 40 

4i 

43 
44 
45 
45 

, 46 
47 

■ 49 

50 
5i 
52 
55 
56 
57 
58 
59 
59 
59 
60 
61 
62 
63 
63 
64 
67 
68 
69 
70 

7i 
72 

73 



CONTENTS. ix 

PAGE 

In a Cemetery 74 

Aphorism : Perfection in Nature . 75 

Love Was Red 75 

Homeless 77 

In a Prism 77 

Epicurean 81 

Self 82 

1 Drifted Like a Wind-Blown Leaf To- 
Day 82 

A Face Serene 83 

Evening 84 

A Song of Sad Love .... 85 
Ballad of the Green, Green Sea . . 92 

The Latter Days 94 

One Happy Hour 94 

Chocolate 95 

You Stood 95 

Aphorism : Poetry 96 

A Larger Life 96 

Greatness 97 

Cranford Water 98 

Aphorism : Love 98 

Place Me Again, I Pray, Great Fate ! 98 
A Souvenir Villanelle . . . -99 
The Valley of Silence .... 100 
The Little Brown Owl . . . 100 

Triolet 101 

Of Autumn Wine 102 

The Disinherited , 103 

Love is a Riddle 104 

An Idyl of the Beach .... 105 
An Idyl of the Hills . . . .105 

Sunset on Hopatcong .... 106 
Aphorism : Reconciliation . . . 106 



x CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Fireflies 107 

The Lodge 108 

Scarlet Tanager 108 

I Dream in the Amber Autumn . . 109 

Anew no 

To Lift One's Head no 

Aphorism: Health . . . . in 

A Tropic Hope 112 

A Memory Sweet 119 

A Knife of Agate 120 

So We Care Not 121 

The Melody 122 

There Are Loves and Loves . . 123 

Twenty Kisses 123 

My South 124 

Aphorism : Joy of the Moment . . 125 

Black Robin 125 

A Dream of Dree 126 

The Sylvan Singers . . . .127 

The World 130 

Soul and Soil . . . . . . 131 

One More Song 131 



PROEM 

Give me a finding thought, a subtle state, a vivid word ! 

Let me within the veil and let me learn ! — 

With every sun that burnetii to its hills of sleep I burn, 

With every leaping lightning flash I yearn ; — 

Let all this beauty be with me and grow 

Until the open sesame of secret joy L know, 

Until L tremble with the deep surprise, and stirred, 

Can pipe full-throated music like a bird ! 

Ah, would that 1 might be a singer, too ! 
That this half kindled music in my soul 
Might burn melodiously athwart the scroll 
Of human memories, hi fadeless view ! — 
Touching to joy the lutes of life anew, 
Re-echoed long where kindred spirits meet, 
Where high endeavors mock at toil-worn feet, 
And restless natures noble aims pursue ! 

I would my song could kiss with lover's lips ! 

Could weave all charms whereby mens thoughts are drawn, 

And speak to shaken hearts a guiding word ! — 

My lay could paint the sea with wind-sped ships, 

Paint waiting skies with herald fires of dawn, 

And breathe a bugle note to souls unstirred ! 



THE WIND-HARP SONG. 

1SING a wind-harp song, 
Dreamily musical, 
Strange and faint and clear ; 
Beneath the steady stars, 
Thro' the dim, sweet night, 
Floating, 
Mystically floating. 

List !— 
O listen ! 

The petaled stars are blooming, 

In the skies, serenely lifting ; 

Their light in the weird woods faintly falling 

The dark woods, dim and damp, 

Where the fern leaves droop, 

And all the trees stand waiting, 

Silent, alive, waiting 

Till you have gone 

And they may whisper and shiver 

And move at will. 

But now they watch, 
With their many eyes, attentive, 
Gravely silent and waiting, 
Knowing much and remembering. 



14 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

When you have gone, 

Then will they beckon and whisper, 

Stealthily, stealthily, 

Murmuring sagas olden. 

Old, old things they remember, 

Of the burnt-out years, 

Which, past-ward, 

Like smoke-puffs, dim, are drifting ; — 

In fine ineffable whispers, 

Each to each, they utter 

Stories of battle and murder ; 

Beasts and birds and their hunting ; 

(The dead bones, buried beneath, 

Their roots are sluggishly sucking); 

Black nights and sobbing tempests ; 

The weeping of rain ; 

Long lights and shadows of mornings ; 

And sultry, slumberous noons. 

In the still nights 

The owl, 

Soundless from tree to tree 

Flitting, 

Hears it all, and ponders, 

Till his eyes grow great with wonder, 

On his head the feathers rise, 

Solemnly ponders, 

Filled with wonder and wierdness and laughter. 

The winds, 

Whistling, 

Singing, 

From far away winging, 



THE WIND-HARP SONG. 15 

Tell their tales of Thence and Thither, 
And Yonder Lands, 
Over the Sun-fall Hills, 
The Sun-rise Sea. 

And the dusky winds, 

Trailing thro' the black, vague 

Negative 

Of Night ;— 

Winds woven from spirits, flitting ; 

The breath of panthers ; 

Of murdered men smitten down in the darkness ; 

Of lovers sighing "closer ! — closer ! " 

In warm bowers under the moon, 

Secretly pressing flesh against flesh ; 

Zephyrs from waving wings of vampires, 

Kissing, pricking, drinking the warm blood ; 

Air currents, rippling tremulous 

From myriad motions 

Of multitudinous creatures — 

Running, leaping, crawling, flying, 

Citizens of the void, mysterious. 

Situate between the pulses of life called Day ; 

Steams ; 

Malaries from the marshes ; 

Dreams ; — 

Tell also all the wisdom, 

All the romance of their substance. 

And the stars 

Fling down 

Ineffable music, 

Tinkling like jewels, 

From all their aerial dancing. 



i6 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

And the moon 

Burns a white and singing flame ; 

Singing of mystery, 

Madness, 

Love, 

The burning of beautiful eyes 

Uplifted, 

And the slow, electric sliding of hands, 

Tremulous, 

Thrilling, 

Caressive. 

***** 
Notes of the wind-harp song 
In the star-ray, 
The fish-scale glitter, 
The rainbow over the fountain, 
The black shadow, 
The moon's mystery, 
The wind's whisper, 
The brazen note of the great crane ; 
The fine voices 
Of growing grasses, 
Armorous flowers, 
Motherly fruit, 
Seed laughter ; 

Banks, 

Bees, 

Bird music, 

Clouds, 

Distance .... 

Sleep. 



IN TOUCH. 17 



THE WISH OF WOMANHOOD. 

THIS is the secret wish, 
The prayer of womanhood : — 
" Give me a friend who reads my heart ! 
Let me be understood ! " 



IN TOUCH. 

TRUE natures are in touch 
With all things beautiful- 
The earth and sea and sky, 
Winds, 
Wildlings, 
And each other. 

Their loneliness is such 

As solitude relieves, 

Art, 

Or the rare, sweet reprieves 

Of souls, akin, 

Close met. 



Every woman is an undiscovered country. 



iS WIND-HARP SONGS. 



MY DEAD. 

AND you are dead, my beautiful, beloved, 
My inmost love, my sweet, dark, gentle friend; 
No more the light from your brown eyes, so soft, 
Shall be the radiance of my humble home ; 
No more your voice shall welcome back from toil ; 
No more your soft, brown, clinging tress shall frame 
With glinting, silken charm your sweetest face ; 
No more that head upon my breast shall lie, 
With fragrant breath perfuming all my beard — 
Soul-beautiful, I would have died for thee ! 

No more ! — I mind we often talked of death, 
How that our final change was like a sleep 
In which we dreamed ourselves away, away, 
Into the stream that sparkled in the sun, 
Into the breeze that whispered in the pine, 
The bud, the blade, the inconstant flower, 
The mobile cloud that dappled heaven's dome, 
The lightning's flame that split the leafy oak, 
The soft blue haze that hid in sylvan shades, 
Away, away, till we were wholly gone ; 
Forming new life within a hundred lives ; 
Held fast within the circles infinite ; 
Unconscious, oft, that we had lived before ; 
Ofttimes unknowing we were living still ; 
Absorbed into the members of the Whole — 
Nirvana. 

Ah! It was not wise to weep, 
We said, in this short life so strangely sweet, 



MY DEAD. 19 

(I have not wept) or make a moan at death 

(I have not moaned), but calmly, healthfully, 

With conscious joy, we each should pluck the blooms 

Within our reach ; and calmly, restfully, 

Each one, when tired, should fall on sleep in peace, 

Without regret or fear, as knowing; well 

The worth and worthlessness of life. 

O sweet, 
O wise, without regret or fear you slept ; 
And I — looked camly on your dying face, 
And I looked calmly in your open grave ; 
Calmly I go to reap the fruits of life, 
Within the precious hours I keep awake, 
This brief, swift-changing time that I am man, 
Until I too shall sleep. 

O love, O sweet, — 
Perchance within our dreams to meet ! — mayhap 
To kiss and flow together in the stream, 
To laugh and murmur 'neath the mossy stone, 
To drift and eddy in the placid pool, 
Our eyes in bubbles smiling side by side ; 
Mayhap to rise, sun-lifted, in the steam, 
To float above the green, beneath the blue, 
To fall in dancing drops upon the corn, 
To flash in forking flames athwart the night, 
Or call, or whisper, in the whirling wind ; 

It may be I shall swell the piping throat 
That sings beside some sylvan nest, while you 
May warm the breast that warms the spotted eggs ; 
Just as I sang, erstwhile, in wildwood home, 
When you, at eve, were with our nesting babes — 
Ah well ! Farewell ! My lips repeat our lore : — 



20 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Be brave, be wise, be happy — this is life — 
You taught in death, I live to teach it true ; — 
Soul-beautiful ! beloved ! I would have died 
For thee ! I would have lived for thee. 



THE SOUL SUPREME. 

I SING of a vision far, 
Of a thought on high things set, 
Of a sight serene, 
And a purpose clean, — 
A pleasure in all things, great and small, 
Loves and loss and the fates that fall, — 
Power to hold or forget. 
( The fountains are clear as spar I) 

Of the happy-wise, sing I, 
Consciously, ever to add ; 
With their search sublime 
Thro' space and time, 
Their solemn delight in all things true, 
Their child-like joy in all things new, 
Simple and sweet and glad. 
( Cloudless and blue the sky. ) 

The Overlook my theme, 
And the life in the Lifted Land ; 
Where the nights have balm, 
And the days are calm, 
The passions serve, and the charms obey, 
And the brain is sane that holdeth sway, 
Gentle and firm the hand. 
(Is it but a dream ?) 



FREEDOM. 

I sing of the soul supreme, 
Of a spirit erect and free, 
Too far above 
To be harmed by love, 
Or fear, or hate, or gain, or loss, 
Or to stake its joy on a gambler's toss, 
Hold self-empery. 
{How the zvhite peaks gleam.) 



CUPID. 

O CUPID is a honey-bee, 
So it seems to me, 
With a secret sting 
And much honey : 

In rosy hours, 
Ravisher of flowers 
In dainty bowers : 

Musical of wing, 
Builder of fair homes, 
Yet roams 
With dalliance, he. 



FREEDOM. 

REEDOM is this to me— 
The Remedy. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



I AM GLAD— ARE NOT YOU ? 

\ I J HEN all is done, and there are none to love 

When all is done, and flowers bloom above me, 
When all is done, and all men shall forget me, 
When all is done, and naught of fate can fret me — 

All the East will flush as fairly as it now does, in 

the mornings ; 
All the birds will sing as sweetly, spite of Death 

and all his warnings ; 
Lips will kiss and hearts go thrilling, spite of 
Time's ironic scornings, 
Then, as now ! 

I am glad it will be so — 

Are not you ? 
I am glad the streams will flow 

As they do ; 
I am glad the sun will shine, 
And the vines will bloom and twine, 
And the autumn spill its wine 

Through and through, 

Just the same, 
Whether you and I exist, 
Or are not so much as mist, 
Or the memory of a name 

Men allow. 



ONLY A MEMORY. 23 



ONLY A MEMORY. 

ONLY a memory is the maid 
Who loved me true in the young-love days, 
The wandering days of light and shade, 
Of toil and search in devious ways — 
Ah ! — little thought I she would be 
Only a memory. 

Only a memory every charm, — 
The music gone with the passing breath, 
Each swaying grace of act and form 
Forever still in the couch of Death ; 
Oh dearest love ! — are you to me 
Only a memory ? 

Only a memory, tone and word, 
The tender care of the thoughful brain, 
The gentle touch that my spirit stirred, 
The woman's ruth at the world's wide pain, 
The dauntless will that ivould be free — 
Only a memory. 



To labor and love is life sublime ; 
To labor and load an argosy 
Sailing away on the tides of Time 
To the shores of a dim Futurity, 
To sail and serve when we shall be 
Only a memory. 



24 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Our ships float on, my parted love, 
White their sails on a sun-kissed sea, — 
The waves below and the winds above, 
Waft our freights to the would-be-free, — 
To sail and serve when sunk are we — 
Only a memory. 



MY LADY GENTLE WONDERFUL. 

GENTLE, wonderful is my fair, 
My sweet dark love with the unnamed 
charm, 
With the clinging cloud of dusky hair, 
Deep welling eyes of tender care, 
And magnet arm. 

Gentle, wonderful is her touch, 
The silk-soft thrill of her little hand, 

who can tell why its spell is such ! 
Or tell at all why it means so much, 

Simple yet grand. 

Gentle, wonderful is her voice — 
I have in my store no figure fit ; 

1 can but tell that it fixt my choice ; 
I can but say that the winds rejoice 

To carry it. 



THE GREEK ANTHOL OGY. 25 



THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 

OBEATIFUL, bright Greeks, naked, flower- 
crowned, 
Elate with strength and grace of human life, 
Types, evermore, of naturalness in man, 
And rosy, fresh and dewy things in youth, — 
To me thy gem-like songs are full of light. 

The grace of bleating kids and fawns that skip 

Upon the outlined rocks and peaks against 

The opal sky of dawn is theirs ; the flush 

Of sunrise pink upon the marble cliffs ; 

The wash and drowsy lap, most musical, 

Of waves rippling the blue, Aegean sea ; 

The bubbling laugh of fountained nymphs among 

Thy hills, rising to greet the morning sun ; 

The song of blackbirds in the myrtle groves ; 

The fluting of the little satyr lads 

That herd thy goats and bask about thy rocks ; 

The sanity of joy ; the dignity 

And charm of simple, healthful life ; the mirth 

And beauteous blossoming of freeest love ; 

Wisdom most true, and penetrative wit. 



26 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



W 



TRUE LOVE. 

HAT is true love ? Is it this : 
Only on one mouth to kiss ? 



Only on one breast to lie ? 
Only for one touch to sigh ? 

Only in one soul to be 
Shrined in love's idolatry? 

To have and and hold a human heart 
Sole for self, a slave, apart ? 

Is this true love ? It may be ; 
It is not true love to me. 

Love most true is this, I deem : 
To, in love, be what I seem ; 

To be always true to trust, 
Though the years go back to dust ; 

To be like a harboring bay, 
Where my loves, at anchor, may 

Lie forevermore, secure, 
In a love that will endure ; 

To speak, in love, the simple truth 
Tenderly, in manly ruth 

Of a woman's agony, 

Should Love speak deceivingly ; 



DEATH'S WORD. 27 

To be always frank and clear 
To the hearts that hold me dear, 

Though they love, and love again, 
Others of the sons of men, 

Though the lips that I may know 
On still other lips may glow, 

Though another love is first, 
My love must not be the worst. 

What my lovers love to me 
Appeals for generous sympathy. 

As they change not, nor will I, 
But will give the sure reply. 

Making answer aye the same, 
When in love they speak my name, 

When they call me, calling clear : 

"Love, O hear me!" . . . . "lam here ! " 

****** 

This is true love, large and free, 
Love's reliability. 



DEATH'S WORD. 

FOR Death, but one word hath full eloquence, 
That great unvoiceable whose name saith— 

Silence. 

****** 

But one word holds all eloquence of Death : — 
That undefined, unspeakable, which Silence saith. 



28 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



MOTHER. 

MOTHER, calm and kind, 
The Friend of Peace, 
Lo, you have found at last 
The long release. 

Musing, we say farewell, 

For what is Death ? 
Or why does man receive 

Or lose his breath ? 

There is no answer here, 

Nor anywhere, 
In earth, or sea, or sky, 

Or upper air. 

We live in mystery, 

And when we die 
No answer has the Sphinx 

To quest or cry. 

We act our little part, 

Or well or ill, 
Then pass with pallid lips 

Forever still. 

We gag our clamorous doubts 

With platitudes, 
And stoutly feign the faith 

That still eludes. 



MO THER. 29 



But whether we believe, 

Or feign we do, 
We all remain the same — 

We do not know. 

Faith is but willful hope, 

And proofless still ; 
Faith never changed a fact 

And never will. 

The simple ever hold 

That virtue saves ; 
The good go down, they say, 

To blameless graves. 

Ah, mother, you were wise 

When that you said 
You troubled not tho' all 

The dead were dead. 

For if the dead woke not 
Their sleep endured, 

And life had sickness, oft, 
That nothing cured. 

It did not trouble you, 

Nor does it me, 
Whether we live so long, 

Or endlessly. 

Life must be aye the same, 
Both gold and dross, 

Virtue and vice, joy, pain, 
And gain with loss. 



30 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

In earth, or heaven, or hell 
The law must hold, 

The see-saw rise and fall 
With rhythm old. 

And, mother, you have seen 

The all of it, 
Ten billion years, I deem, 

Could add no whit. 

But it may be you find 

Continued life, 
Another world of joy 

And care and strife. 

Or it may be you sleep 

The utter sleep ; 
Forever from the crowd 

Who laugh and weep. 



Your life was very sad, 

But very sweet, 
You walked in peaceful paths 

With gentle feet. 

You made an atmosphere 

Of kindly grace, 
You were beloved by all 

That saw your face. 

You taught us to be true, 

As you were true, 
To face the naked soul 

And look it through. 



EMILY DICKINSON. 31 

I thank you for that word, 

Nor can forget, 
Farewell ! — most faithful friend — 

My "mother " yet. 
May, 1892. 



EMILY DICKINSON. 

IT seems to me you sing a song 
That startled every one ; 
Odd intergrowth of heathen 
And New England Puritan. 

Your art is like a Japanesque ; — 
Perspective and detail 
Are very independent, 
But the picture pleases well. 

Suppose a Quaker wood-bird 
To throw a parrot wing, 
Talk Manx and Hindostanee, 
And then go back and sing 

Wierd bits and beautiful, 
A Concord touch or two, 
Lyric thought, so stated 
As no one else dare do. 



32 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



REMEMBER. 

DEAR friend, remember how we walked this 
Park, 
All safe in very heart of fierce New York, 
And felt the bright sun with the winds of Spring, 
And saw, to-day, the late snow on the grass, 
And saw, the next, the dandelions appear, 
And marked the robin's breast against the green. 

Remember how I read you verses in these nooks, 
Hard by the little pool among the rocks, 
Where ran the music of the little stream, 
And your soft tones made music sweeter still : 

Remember how we wooed the squirrels to come, 
And saw the seals, and gave the "beasties" 

sweets, 
And talked of gentle things, and things remote 

from man ; 
And talked of simple things, and joys that have no 

sting ; 
Letting our hearts flow on like little brooks 
That sing beneath the sun, and were as gods 
Or little children, free and wandering here, — 
And knew the Gentle Life and felt the Great 

Content. 



THE MOON-SHARK. 33 



THE SMELL OF RAIN-WET EARTH. 

THE smell of rain- wet earth upon the air, 
And rose leaves, wet and flashing : 
The fragrance floats me back, all unaware, — 
I see that love-white face divinely fair 
Again — and drooping head with braided hair — 
Half know the fountain plashing, 
The smell of rain-wet earth upon the air, 
And rose leaves wet and flashing. 



THE MOON-SHARK. 

IN the evening sky, to the eastward, thro' cloud 
waves long and dark, 
The half-moon's tip was cutting like the fin of a 
golden shark. 



34 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



MOUNT WALT WHITMAN. 

WHAT ! is Walt Whitman dead ? 
Nay, it cannot be, for the mountains do not 
die! 
They say he is dead, but the difference does not 

appear ; 
For he is a mountain, 
A great gray rock, 
Rugged, alone, forever ; 
And the mountains endure, sublime, motionless, 

and fixed before us ; 
They touch the sky, and we must see them, and we 
cannot forget. 

Have you ever considered how marvelous a moun- 
tain is ? 
With its white head among the stars, 
Its foundations broad as the bases of all things, 
Deep as the center of the world's heart ; 
A witness of all, and of the order of all, 
Surveying the centuries, and the scratches man 
makes in the surface of things, and the coming 
and going, like shadows, of the nations : 
Familiar with the red whips of the lightning, and 

the deep-throated thunder ; 
With night, and the great tempests, and the wide 

winds of destiny ; 
The changing worlds of vapor, the awful solitudes 
under the stars, and the white, mysterious 
movings of moonlight : 



MOUNT WALT WHITMAN. 35 

Full of great voices, solemn music, sweet songs, 
and the embracing silences of the upper air ; 

The roar of avalanches, the screams of eagles, the 
melody of falling streams, the love-whistle of 
little birds nesting by the blue tarns — 

The blue tarns among the gray rocks (the wild fowl 
know them) girt with green pines, placid, re- 
flecting like mirrors : 

Rich with mines of the white ore and the yellow, 

Iron for strength, and coal for heat, 

And radiant, glittering gems : 

With slopes and valleys where vines grow, and 
flocks feed, and hamlets nestle : 

And over all, and with all, always the free air and 
the wide view. 

Ah, Walt, Walt, poet of Nature, comrade of free 

men, 
Other poets have been Olympian, 
But you are Olympus itself. 

March 28, 1892. 



36 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

INCARNATE voice of English May, 
1 The gentlest of the sons of song; — 
As some soft brook to me, alway, 
Thou art, O voice of English May. 
'Mid rural scenes, in limpid play, 

I love with thee to float along — 
Incarnate voice of English May, 

And gentlest of the sons of song. 



AZTEC OF THE AIR. 

AZTEC of the air, blithe Bob O'Link,- 
Quez-cat-a-lotl, link-a-link-a-link ! 
Thy syllables, so sweet, 
I think, 
Chime with the tongue of Popocatapetl, 
And the clink-a-link-clink, 
Of a shaken sheet 
Of crinkling, musical metal. 



POETRY. 37 



POETRY. 

POETRY, 
Thou art to me 
My confidante, 
My friend ! 

When all the tides within 
Rise overflowing, 
Thou art to me 
Like liberty. 

On thine infinity 
My argosy 
Is launched, a boat 
With every tide. 

But some will sink, 
And some — who knows !- 
O Poetry, thou art to me 
As destiny ! 



38 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



B 



THE DAY-BIRTH. 
EAUTIFUL ! 



Beautiful ! 

Far away 
The Sun leaps up with his baby, Day, — 
A royal father, and proud, is he, 
His visage gleams with fatherly glee; 
The wood-birds sing and the roosters cheer; 
The green leaves glitter — up starts the deer ! 
All nature rings with the glad refrain: 
" Behold ! — the world is new again." 



THE WHITE SWAN OF WINTER. 

THE white swan of winter is plucking her breast; 
With down-fluffs the hill rocks are padded 
and pressed; 
The cold winds are blowing, 
The white feathers strowing; 
The white swan of winter is making her nest. 



In all the universe but one great fact I see: 

Mystery. 



A WILD TIGER-LILY. 39 



A WILD TIGER-LILY. 

A LURID Tiger-lily, flower of flame, 
With purple blackness lurking in thy leopard 
spots, 
And red-coal-ashed- with-gold-dust anther tips, — 
Thou mindest me — I know not hardly why — 

Of one dear name, 

And one dark cheek, 
Alike to thee in lovely arrogance of tint. 

Yet difference I spy 

In this, O fair flame-lily, 

All thy glories glint 

Within the lonely wood, 

Or hillside solitude, 
Where some rare lover of the wilderness may roam 

Who only giveth thee caress, 

Who only thee may know; 

While she would glow 
Where crowded-close humanity 
Like over-ripe, packed peaches rots, 

And woman sips 
The false, thin, flattering foam 
From empty hearts upwhirled. 

But still, when deeper cause for this I seek, 
This line of likeness which I needs must guess, 
I find in these things still you are the same : 
An equal, rich luxuriance of life in both, I see, 
And careless blazing of bold beauty on the world. 



4o WIND-HARP SONGS. 



I LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. 

SWEETHEART, lie still upon my breast, 
With love-red lips to mine impressed, 
And satin limbs that twine with mine, 
Like clinging tendrils of a vine. 

O, love, the morning 'gins to peep, 
The rainbow-robed cataracts leap, 
A spotted fawn stands in the glade, 
The dew-drop diamonds gem each blade. 

Sweet love, I feel your gentle heart 
Throb where the sphered bosoms part; 
My necklace rare, your warm white arms, 
My coverlet, disheveled charms. 

The whoop-crane's clangor wakes the fens, 
Thrush voices pulse in echoing glens, 
On wave-wet sands the sea birds meet, 
Shy violets hide 'neath clover sweet. 

Ah man is man, and maid is maid, 
Sweet echoes, by each other swayed; — 
Soft eyes will smile, red lips will cling, 
Till Death his last scythe stroke shall swing. 

The wild-fowl wedge through Northern skies, 
In Indian glades the tiger sighs, 
The siroc whirls the desert sands — 
Love touches all, all climes, all lands. 



THE WHOOP-CRANE'S CLANGOR. 41 



THE WHOOP-CRANE'S CLANGOR. 

ALONG the lone Floridian fens, 
Wild scrub-wreathed sands and hammock 
Edens, 
Croaks the importunate, clanging cry, 
From out the painted sunset sky, 
Of whoop-cranes, as they roost-ward fly. 

So when the level fire-lance ray, 

The first swift glance of hot-browed Day, 

Adown the moss-hung forest hall 

Of bannered pines, plume-tipped and tall, 

About whose roots the saw-palms sprawl, 

Illumes the smoke-like vapor, blue, 
Upsteaming all the lilies through, 
And glancing o'er the waters, far, 
Proclaims Apollo's coming car, 
And warns all sleepers wake to war — 

'Tis then that harsh and yearning sound, 
Re-echoes to the morning's bound, 
Clangs through the solemn cypress cave, 
Warns the great owl his breath to save, 
And shakes the bulrush o'er the wave; 

As 'long the still and steaming pool, 
Clouded with shadows, broad and cool, 
These great birds fan impetuous wing; 
While 'round them echoes fiercely ring, 
And startled mock-birds cease to sing. 



42 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Prone 'mong the lilies 'long the shore, 
The 'gator stops his blubbering roar, 
And sets his still, reptilian eye 
Upon these corsairs, as they fly, 
Then heaves his vast, resounding sigh. 

And yonder, where the hot rays fall, 
A file of cooters, great and small, 
Emboss the twisted pitch-knot log, 
(Outjutting from the reedy bog), 
Their black necks stretching, all agog. 

Above, against a sapphire sky, 
The osprey wheels his spirals, high ; 
His clear eye drinking all the sight, 
His long wings glancing in the light, 
His silvern belly flashing white. 

Below, beneath the bay tree's shade, 

The moccasin his length has laid 

Of mottled char and muddy ash, 

Still as the latent lightning flash — 

They come ! — and o'er him waters plash ! 

The small-fry note their coming, too, 
And swiftly fin them out of view; 
With startled croak the pied frogs leap, 
The hidden lizard's bright eyes peep, 
The newts among the mosses creep. 
***** 

The wide swamp lies at sultry noon 
Beneath the brazen sun a-swoon; 
All still, save yonder tall-necked crane, 
Stalking with stately, watchful mien 
Athwart the lily-burdened plain. 



THE MOCK-BIRD. 43 

Pacing his stealthy, measured way, 
In ashen plumage, dim and gray, 
'Mid flowers, weeds and maid-cane grass; 
Ghost-like he seems to fade and pass 
From out the field of eye and glass. 
» * * * * 

Thou art my pride, fierce royal bird, 
No sound in Nature hath so stirred 
The wild, free echoes in my breast, 
As thy weird trumpeting's unrest, 
A savage longing, sweet exprest. 



THE MOCK-BIRD. 

ABOVE the white magnolia bloom 
The mock-bird trills and sings 
A woven note of lightsome 'lume, 
That lights the cypress-cavern's gloom 
And through the palm top rings. 

The morning sun is in his eye, 

His breast stands to the light; 
All morrow cares he doth defy, 
Hope helps him perch above them high, 

Beyond them take his flight. 

Now, suddenly, I see him rise, 

Cresting a wave of song; 
Then swiftly falling, far he flies, 
With white-barred wings and love-bright eyes, 

The hammock's edge along. 



44 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

A gift hath to his lady borne 

In their bright sylvan room, 
A nest, 'mid orange leaf and thorn 
(All open to the Orient morn) 
And citrus bridal bloom. 

I hear their twitterings sweet and low 

Behind the emerald screen; 
I hear a flower of music grow 
That dims those bells and buds of snow 
With all their scent and sheen. 

Sweet solace of the Southern home, 

The bird I love the best; 
Within thy brain some mirthful gnome 
Sure bids thee brew this mocking foam 

Poured sparkling from thy breast. 



WOMEN POETS. 

O WOMAN ! Poem alive, to me ; 
I wonder not you are unversed in verserie- 
Can a poem itself make poetry ? 



THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT. 45 



THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT. 

Roosevelt, Midnight, April 8th, 1889. 

1SIT within the long dim ward at night; 
Around me silent beds or snores or groans, — 
Ah ! List that prayer with anguish in its tones: 
" O God, God, God ! How soon will it be light ! " 
" Kape sthill ! An' let us shlape. Oi think yees 
moight ! " — 
A boy asleep, who smiles, (with broken bones) 
Dreaming of mother or some playground sight. 
Without, thick darkness and a wind that moans. 

A rattling breath, a gasp, a still, white stare, 
A nurse's jest: "Discharged — tie up the jaw, 
A label on the wrist to save mistakes," 
The tramp of dead-house men of heedless air, 
Two lines of lifted faces full of awe — 

A sickened sot, that cot to-morrow shakes. 



Life is an agreement of contradictions. 



46 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE GODS ARE DEAD. 

THE gods are dead, and only shrines remain ; 
The gods are dead, but still the Christs are 
slain ; 
The gods are dead, but priests yet work their will ; 
The gods are dead, but men must worship still. 

The gods are dead, but Mystery is yet, 
And fears and tears and drops of bitter sweat, 
And these begot and these have slain the gods, 
And these upheld and these shall break the rods. 

The gods we made to help us in our need, 
And gave them crowns and in their lips a creed, 
But Pain crushed on and they helped not at all, 
And so we turned and smiled to see them fall. 

We in our minds make all things that we know 
Of gods above or god-like powers below : 
Kings, tyrants, lawyers, warrior or priest, 
The millions serving and the few at feast. 

Withhold our faith and all these things shall fall ; 
Like as the gods to whom our faith was all ; 
Make change within and outward there shall be 
Fair field, free growth, and life in all things free. 



CLEOPA TRA. 47 



CLEOPATRA. 

RECLINING in her chamber sat 
Egypt's great queen, 
Below, on skin-of-tiger mat, 

There might be seen 
A fair slave, prone, to stool her feet. 

Her carven couch was rich with gold, 

And flashing gems 
Were bound upon her forehead bold 

And on the hems 
Of all her royal robes replete. 

The walls were wonderful about 

With pictured things : 
Isis, Osiris, battle rout 

And pride of Kings — 
Ptolomy, Menes, Pharoah. 

Out thro' the open window, far, 

Her fierce eyes swept 
The fertile land, thoughtful of war ; 

While shimmering slept 
The corn beneath the noon-tide glow. 

The hand that pressed her satin flank 

Was clenching tight, 
And thro' pale lips that twitched and shrank, 

A gleam of white 
Showed tigress teeth set hard at Fate. 



48 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

" What ! — shall I be a thing of scorn 

At Caesar's show, 
I, at whose feet, with sighs forlorn, 

Not long ago, 
Rome's proudest knelt to supplicate ? 

" By Isis ! — no ! — if steel can stab 

Or poison slay, 
No tattling mob my shame shall blab 

Thro' Rome that day ! 
For I have reigned . . . and now . . . can die. 

"What say'st thou there ! — a peasant brings 

A crate of fruit? 
'Tis well — bring here. (Now lord of kings 

Thy mob may hoot, 
With this friend's help I thee defy.) 

" My ladies, leave me . . . thou too . . . all, 

For I would sleep. 
(Sooth a heavy sleep methinks 'twill fall — 

Ah, I could weep ! 
But royal pride hath heart of stone.) 

" Quick now ! . . . kind goddess, give me strength! 

Up with the lid !— 
Uprears that green and glittering length, 

Out it has slid — 

curse my fear! . . here! . . strike! . . 'its done. 

" Bless thee, dear snake ! Ah, I love thee ! 

That little bite 
Makes free. Now Rome, what shall me dree ? 

In thy despite 

1 'scape ; thou canst not me demean. 



STORM-HEART. 49 

"A deadly langour clogs each vein, 

My limbs grow numb ; 
Now shall I sleep . . . Anthony ! ... no pain . . . 

Ho ! Roman scum ! 
Laugh at yourselves . . I die . . a . . queen." 



STORM-HEART. 

TO live in the quick life of the wind ! — ah ! 
Knowest thou not the joy of the breath of life 
In the nostrils of the swift man, air cleaving; 
In the deep lungs of the galloping horse, 
Rushing impetuously onward, neighing, 
Spurning the resounding earth with beating hoofs? 

Canst thou not exult, with me, with the mad waves, 

Leaping, flashing, foaming, upflinging spray; 

With the boom of the surf upon the shore; 

The wrack of clouds in the sky, storm-beaten; 

The flapping of the sea-bird in the gale; 

And the long wail of the winter wind 

Thro' the wild throats of the darkened pines ? 

To live in the wind, to move, to sway with it, 
Rising and falling with its noble rhythms, 
Surges and lulls of the great gales — Ah me ! 
Ever since I was a boy I have felt thus. 
I have loved the storm, and the speed of winds, 
The run of waves, and the black heart of tempests. 



50 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

O wings of the great winds, whirling, whistling, 
O serpents of flame, 
O voices of terror, 

O breaths of tempest, 

Storm-hearts, I love you ! — 
As the dark eagles of the mountains, 
As the fierce, wild falcons of the desert, 
As the sea-gulls flashing over the breakers, 
As the stormy petrels of the black seas. 



To be God-shot by the long lightnings, 
In the great forest, by the still, stern rocks, 
With the thunder muttering and exulting, 
With the wind sobbing and the rain weeping, 
The pall of a black cloud overhanging, 
And the torn leaves driftihg over, alone — 
Would not that be a beautiful death to die ! 



BY MOUTHS OF SEA WORMS 
QUAINTLY CARVEN. 



A 



LITTLE sea shell 
From the beach, 
By mouths of sea worms quaintly carven, 
Whispered me a thing to tell : 

" Loving is living ! " 
Whispered well, 

Whispered me, and slipt and fell 
Into water, out of reach. 



THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE. 51 



THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE. 

I AM a dove, 
The bird of Love, 
And the woodlands ring 
When I sing ; 
I do not mourn, 

I rejoice, 
When the little ones are born 
I lift my voice : 

Coo-00! coo-00! coo-00! 
For the mate I love and woo, 
For the nestlings, two, 
Coo-00! 

And I croon 

At sultry noon, 
In the coolness and the shade 
Of the glade— 

do not say I mourn, 
Or am sad, 

1 have life and love and corn, 
I-am glad. 

Coo-00! coo-00! coo-00! 
Dear mate, fond and true, 
I have life and I have you — 
Coo-00! 



52 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



A LITTLE RAMBLING RILL. 



O 



MAIDEN fair 
In hair 
And face and form — 
Ah, how the blushing warm 
Blood 
Makes flushing flood 
Thro' all the sweet lip-pasture of her cheek !- 
O hear me speak ! 

Hear me declare 

Confession, bare, 

Of all my fondness true 

For you, 

My azure sky's white dove, 

My love, 

My goddess bright 

As light. 

Hear me proclaim, 

Aflame, 

My ardency 

For thee. 

That little fleck 

Of curling hair, behind, upon your neck, 

Entangleth me — 

Make me not free ! 

O maiden sweet, 
Discreet, 



A LITTLE RAMBLING RILL. 53 

Why should so long the blisses 

Of warm kisses 

Abide, 

And hide, 

Where your two lips, sweet, 

Meet ? 

O maiden pure, 

Demure, 

Why should your soft bright eye's 

Surprise 

Be veiled back — 

Alack !— 

By kissing of fringed lids, dainty, down 

Thrown ? 

O maiden coy ! — 

Ah, joy !— 

Now little smiles, 

At whiles, 

Begin to creep, 

Peep, 

And show thro' rippling lips your teeth 

Beneath. 

Ah, now your tender eyes 

In love arise ; 

And softly speak 

That what I seek 

You gladly give. — 

O darling ! now I live. — 

My sweet one, come 

Home ! 



54 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Your timid, tender kiss 
Is bliss ; 
Like new rain on the earth 

In time of dearth ; 

Your clinging half-embrace 

Makes race 

Thro' every vein 

Sweet sense of gain. 

Upon my cheek your breath 

In silence saith 

A sweeter thing 

Than sirens sing, 

When like winds whirling, 

Wandering, 

They flee 

With moonlit feet along the sea. 

Your little hand's 

Soft nestling stands 

My heart still with full pleasure ; 

No measure 

Have I for my joy, 

Without alloy. 

I cannot speak for peace, 

So cease. 



NO FLAG. 55 



NO FLAG. 

NAY, I am no patriot ; not for me 
This prejudice, so proud, of one's own country, 
Always right, chiefest cause of enmity 

Atween the nations. Were it not for this, 
All peoples had a million years, I wis, 
Ago, exchanged of brotherhood the kiss ! 

And, were it not for this, how great a flood 
Had never flowed of warmest, reddest blood, 
From hearts of murdered heroes, brave and good ! 

How many women hearts unbroke had been, 
Had " patriots " not forgotten they were men, 
And murdered that their land might "glory " win ! 

O folly, this, to die to wear a tag ! 

O crime, to kill because one's country's flag 

Is different from some other piebald rag ! 

For noble hearts find one land scant of room, 
All men their brothers, and the world their home, 
From highest mountain peak to ocean foam. 

Their love holds all, their boast is every clime, 
Their sympathy with every race in every time, 
All patriot songs with equal voice they chime. 



<6 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

They lift no flag, and sound no party cry, 
And leave to fools to run in herds to die, 
Insane at heating : " Foreign foes are nigh ! " 

For them there are no foreigners at all, 
No prejudice of birth, no Chinese wall, 
The Briton but the fellow of the Gaul. 

They hold all roads are open, earth and sea, 

No rightful duty, tax, or passport fee, 

All travelers welcome, and all commerce free. 

They would all bounds were blotted, bars were down 
All nation-lines and States were overthrown, 
Naught left but honest neighborhoods alone ; 

For honest men no laws, no government, 
No interference, howsoe'er well-meant, 
Each man's life, fortune, as he pleases spent. 

O when shall men be tall enough to see 
That pride of country makes for slavery, 
That he alone who has no flag is free ! 

The man without a country 'habits all ; 

Without a flag all banners drape his wall ; 

His patriot heart hears but the wide world's call. 



Love others because you love yourself. 



SONNET TO A WHITE LADY. 57 



SONNET TO A WHITE LADY. 

OSAD White Lady of my soul, I say, 
Listening at memory as one might the spell 
Breathing mysterious from some twined shell, 
Wherefore art thou so far from me astray ? — 
So far, and yet so close to me alvvay 
That my own heart seems but thy house, to dwell 
Awaiting thee, and all my soul thy well 
For thee to drink — so strange ! — ah, well-a-day ! 

I mind me now of some whose souls have bent 
Like bows, full aimed upon some great event ; 
And so have broken, missing what they meant ; 
Disarmed, and yet with arrows all unspent. — 
And some who, meeting Love without dissent 
For once, have kissed and kissing died in full con- 
tent. 



58 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



DESERT VOICES. 

DESERT voices, why tempt my soul? 
For what have I of kin with thee ? — 
With deadly sun and the drifting sand, 
The cactus-thorn and the blasted tree ? 

Ye desert voices, why tempt ye me ? 

For aye and ever I hear ye call : 
" O come, where the wastes are wild and wide, 

And the wide, wild winds are over all ! " 

O desert voices ! O Great Sublime ! — 
My soul is moved by thy weird appeal ; 

Force unknowable, unmasked Life, 
And the Seeds of All Things in thee I feel. 



The heated sand and the pallid snow, 
The sullen mountains, bare and tall, 

The fierce and beautiful, bitter sea, 

And the wild, wide winds that are breath of all. 



INGLE-LOW. 59 



AUTUMN. 

THE season, like a courtesan, 
Hides her age with paint and gems, 
Dyes her locks with gold. 
Pleasing hard while please she can : — 
Lovers hasten ! — no delay ! 
She is smiling, warm as May, 
Quickly passeth charm and sway, 
Glare and glory fade to gray, 
Naught at last but leafless stems, 
And the end is cold. 



INGLE-LOW. 

BLESS you fire, born of burned wood ! — 
For you bless me and do me good ; — 
Antic and lightsome and kindly and warm, 
You make in merry when out is storm ; 
And no man finds him a blither friend 
Than his ingle-low, at the hard day's end. 



The key of pleasure —appreciation. 



6o WIND-HARP SONGS. 



WILD ROSES AND MAIDEN HAIR. 

THAT she was warm I was aware, 
With all sweet virtues in her air, 
( Wild roses and maiden hair.) 

Night has morning and night has noon ; 
Woman's face is a hidden rune 
{In a hammock, beneath the moon.) 

So it were hidden she did not care ; 

Her dress was white, in the moonlight, there. 

{ Wild roses and maiden hair. ) 

Her feet were dainty in slippered shoon, 
The trellis-vine had a fragrant swoon. 
{In a hammock, beneath the moon.) 

The little hands were soft and bare, 

I might have touched them, but did not dare. 

( Wild roses and maiden hair. ) 

The end was coming and came too soon ! — 
Words unspoken, and never a boon ! 
{In a hammock, beneath the moon.) 



NA TURE AND I ARE GLAD. 61 



NATURE AND I ARE GLAD. 

THE days are leaden and purple in stain, 
And laced with bars of a sweet, dark rain, 
And the brows of men are heavy with pain, 
But Nature and I are glad. 

The fields are sketched and etched in gray, 
With charcoal shadows of night-in-day — 
O why do men hate such ? — tell me, pray ! 
For Nature and I are glad. 

These warm, wet days are akin with the South, 
And they kiss close down, like a wet, warm mouth. 
You may pray, if you will, for the days of drouth, 
But Nature and I are glad. 

They are filled, a-thrill with the thunder-soul, 
The pen of the lightning has writ their scroll, 
And brows may furrow, and lips condole, 
But Nature and I are glad. 

For the days are latticed with sweet, dark rain, 
They are gray and purple and leaden in stain ; 
Dull hearts get dolor, dull lungs complain, 
But Nature and I are glad. 



62 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



REVERIE. 

I SAT me down within a beauteous wood, 
All in a strangely sweet and dreamy mood, 
My thoughts, like all those bright leaves, strewed. 

I drank the freshness of the amber air, 

The glowing beauty of those colors rare, 

And thought of one whose face was dark, yet fair. 

'Twas then a nymph-like form beside me stood — 

Is it a sylvan spirit of the wood ? 

Or is the wine of autumn in my blood ? 

The ripeness of the time my soul receives, 
An Oriental web the sunshine weaves, 
Rich-hued, and patterned by the crimson leaves. 

A gentle presence shares my pleasure now, 
The glory of the day gleams on another's brow, 
Our thoughts are far too deep for words' light flow. 

Ask not, O friends, that I should tell you more ; 
There are sweet secrets in the heart's deep core, 
Close guarded as the mine's rich ore. 



CHERR V BL OSSOMS. 63 



CHERRY BLOSSOMS. 

CHERRY blossoms are white and sweet, 
As a white cloud from the sky come down, 
White as fair foam from the sea upthrown, 
For the eye's joy meet. 

Cherry blossoms are white and sweet, 
A dark-red the robin's breast among, 
And full of red love the song he sung — 
My love sings discreet ! 

Cherry blossoms are white and sweet ; 
The far, fair sky shines blue between, 
And the sharp, bright air seems washed out clean- 
Summer whispereth ! 

Cherry blossoms are white and sweet, 
Thunder and sun and ropes of rain, 
Anger and smiles and kisses of pain, 
Petals blown with a breath. 



There is luck in love where the woman woos. 



64 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



HAIL, COMRADE ! 

WRITTEN FOR EVALD HAMMAR'S FORTIETH 
BIRTHDAY, OCT. 3RD, 1892. 

HAIL, comrade, whom my thought endears, 
Your day of birth, of forty years, 
Deserves a bit of rhyme ! 

For we were chums, in heart and thought, 
Among that little band who sought 
The Southern clime 

To hold a larger life and free, 
In the elect society 
Of thinkers great. 

Who came to browse on Eden food 
And lead a life of brotherhood — 
Millenial state. 

Alas, we only found it true 
That names oft change, but seldom do 
The hearts of men ; 

The bigot is the bigot, still, 
Whatever words his mouth may fill, 
Of generous ken ; 

The pard doth not evict his spot, 
Nor blanch his hide the Hottentot, 
Because his name 



HAIL, COMRADE! 65 

Is changed from this to something else, 
Or some brave tag the public tells 
His whitened fame. 

And thus we found the fact to be, 
A " Liberal " might be aught but free, 
And for " Reform," 

It might be but another creed, 
To limit nature, cripple deed, 

And mind deform. 
***** 
You built your home, and I built mine, 
From logs of hewn and peeled pine 

And cleared the land 

Of saw-palm, pine, and black-jack oak 
And planted what we might to cloak 
The naked sand. 

Remember you those long-drawn days 
Of flashing sun and azure haze 
And balmy air, 

When we would toil with plow and hoe 
To coax the lazy trees to grow, 
The crops to bear ? 

And those gay nights when all would meet 
To kick out care with dancing feet 
And rustic mirth ? 

Or when, within my home, you'd sing 
And make the little fiddle ring 
Beside the hearth ? 



66 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Those days were hard ones for us all, 
And yet I love them to recall, 
For there was much 

That gave us pleasure in them, too, 
And every thought and purpose true 
Found us in touch. 

Our thoughts were high, our speech was great, 
With noble hopes we were elate, 
And every plan 

To make life freer, wiser, strong, 
Was in our ears as some sweet song 
Of help to man. 

You were a teacher to me, there ; 
You opened doors to fresher air 
And gave me food 

To ease my hunger for the best, 
And that of which I was in quest 
You showed was good. 

Among that small, Utopian band 
You were my chiefest, chosen friend, 
And when you left 

It seemed our music left with you ; 
My fiddle strings all snapt in two, 
Of you bereft. 

***** 

Well, friend, those times are past and gone, 
And you the fortieth mile-stone 
Are reaching, fast, 



"LIBERTY." 67 

Upon life's journey to that strange, 
Unravelled mystery of change 
Of all the last. 

I wish you birthdays, many more ! 
Of all good things I wish you store ! — 
And, ere you die, 

May your glad eyes perceive, fulfilled, 
The freedom they have wished and willed — 
And so — good-bye ! 



"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE 
WORLD." 

HARD by the ferry's rail I stood, one night, 
And saw the beacon gleam across the bay, 
Of that fair statue bravely raised to say : — 
O Brain and Hand be Free ! — in words of light ; 
But as I looked, no statue met my sight, 
Only a shapeless shade that seemed to stay 
Atween the glorious torch-star, sweet as day, 
And where the pedestal shone palely white. 

A symbol this, it seemed to me ; forsooth 

The world lies wan beneath high Freedom's flame, 

And, dazzled, knows not yet her form, nor grace ; 

Her torch to men is but a torch in truth, 

Few read as yet her lines of healing fame — 

Too dark ! Too soon ! — the morrow sees her face. 



68 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



B 



MY WOMEN. 

EH OLD my women, grave and sweet, 
With eyes of depth, and stately feet. 



With brows of thought, and magnet hand, 
And tact and heart to understand ; 

Who hear and see, and quickly feel, 
What tone and glance alone reveal. 

Who, hand in hand, keep step and stride, 
With tender courage, at my side. 

Who fit my mood, as fits the sea 
Into a noontide reverie. 

Who calm my soul, as does the sky 
When on the sward I musing lie. 

Who give me rest, as Mother Earth 
When on her breast I make my berth. 

Whose woman's pride and kindling eye 
Inspire me like a prophecy. 

Whose courage high, and faith elate, 
Bend all my aims to nobler fate. 

Who stir and thrill like music, rare, 
And cleanse and free like ocean air. 



A WINTER MORNING WALK. 69 

Who bid me trust them, have no fear, 
With lips of truth and eyes sincere. 

I know my women, grave and sweet, 
And they know me, where'er we meet. 



A WINTER MORNING WALK. 

THE gray hills circle on the bourne of sight, 
And like a picture on a shell are drawn 
The eastward farm and trees upon the light : 
Across the pallid, drifting fields of snow 
I stride, elate, while overhead the crow, 
Cut on their clearness like a cameo, 
Athwart the pearl-hued skies of first, faint dawn, 
Flaps like a flying fragment of the Night. 

Hold we but hope of souls untouched of tether, 
And pace in step with Nature's mood alway, 
For health and wit and happy thought and love, 
No matter be it fair or falling weather, 

Or skies be black or skies be bright above, 
The morning is our youth, and spring of day. 



7o WIND-HARP SONGS. 



A FAIR WOMAN'S HAIR. 

BEWARE 
Of the spell of a fair woman's hair ! 
Glinting with sun-gold. 
Floating in air, 

Softer than silk of the Orient loom, 
Brown, auburn, or golden, or glossy in gloom ; 
Fragrant, beautiful snare ; 
Beware 
Of the charm of a fair woman's hair. 

Beware ! 

The bonds of the heart are there ; 

Curling so prettily over the brow — 

Oh turn your eyes from its magic now ! 

Those threads are the strings of Cupid's bow, 

His arrows dart from bright orbs below : 

Turn ! 

Spurn ! 

Or your heart will yearn, 

And your thoughts will burn — 

Ah ! when will the wise man learn 

To beware 

Of the snare 

Of a fair woman's hair? 

Beware ! 

Take care ! 

A lasso of Love is each hair, 

Waving and crinkling there, 



STORM- LESSON. 71 

Or bright and straight 

With the beauty of Fate ; 

Brittle as glass yet strong as steel, 

Entangling hearts for woe or weal ; 

Drawing a man to the gates of sin 

Or hedging him in 

With a holy veil, 

Against which Hell's gates cannot prevail — 

O hide me there ! 

Safe from care, 

Wrapt in the cloud of a fair woman's hair, 

Beautiful, beautiful hair. 



STORM-LESSON. 



AGAINST the sombre pines the white storm 
whirls, 
Below a felted sky, wan-hued as death, 
While all the woods are rimed with Winter's 
breath, 
The trunks ice-mailed; sleet cuts; the wild wind 
hurls 
The damp and clogging flakes, and rhythmic 
sings, 
In wailing words of chanted under-song, 

As in the lee the wave-like drift it flings, 
A rune of things unfathomed, old and strange 
and strong. 



72 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

II. 

The East is pale as pearl ; faint stripes of red, 
Athwart, burn clear and fine, the fields are white 
And drawn with drifts curl-lipped like shells ; the 
Night 
Hath banished Storm ; the Winds, wide-winged, 
are fled, 
And with the sun, lo ! — all the world hath gems 
And fire of stabbing sparks and jewels a-cling 

To crystal twigs and spangled sprays and stems — 
While tinkling on the crust the falling ice-casts 
ring. 



O Nature, mother, sweet and fierce and kind, 
Strange, beautiful or passionate or grave, 
From thee are all the things that slay or save, 

That give us ease or dread, that loose or bind ; 
And, we, of thee begotten, have the germs 

And rudiments of that thy largeness hath. 
Thou canst no more, and I accept thy terms 

And wage with thee no silly war of whining 
wrath. 



Genius is intuition, innate force and the passion- 
ate desire to do a perfect thing. 



MY WITCH FLAMES. 73 



MY WITCH FLAMES. 

THE witch, Flame, stept on a kindling stick, 
And leapt with a bound to the apex, quick, 
Scattering abroad her blazing hair, 
Waving weird arms, wild, red, and bare. 

Tossing her smoke-blue mantle o'er, 
With a crackling laugh, half-hiss, half-roar, 
Licking the logs with her lapping tongue, 
Writhing, worm-like, the knots among. 

While eerie urchins came from her wame, 
Skipping some step of an elfin game, 
Doing the tricks of their demon dam, 
As apes, insane, with an oriflamb. 

And their red eyes winked, 'mid ashes gray, 
As they turned and squirmed and vanished away 
Stretching, anon, like tip-tailed snake, 
Lizard-like, seeming to fall and break. 

So I sit and pore at the eldritch race 
And their flapping fun in that sooty place, 
And hold my toes to the genial heat, 
Or nod and grin at a witch-face, sweet. 

But it sometimes seems that they stay not there, 
But leap and climb in my beard and hair, 
Bedaubing my nose with charcoal grimes, 
Whirling my wits in mad-cap rhymes. 



74 WIND- HARP SO NGS. 



Ay, I love ye well, ye witch-flames, gay, 
As I sit at mine ingle and mind your play — 
May ye and I be friends for long 
Ye skip-jig Muses of my song. 



IN A CEMETERY.* 

J SAT among the earthed and speechless dead, 
1 While in the west the great sun, round and red, 
Sank like a sign behind the hazy hills. 

My thoughts were floated far in solemn trance, 
The heights of life and death stood in my glance 
And all the vale that intervening fills. 

The giggling laugh smote faint upon my ear 
Of thoughtless ones who jested there, anear, 
While on the bourne the day's life burned out 
clear. 

A dry wind, lingering, touched upon my brow, 
And seemed to whisper: "Work your worth out 
now, 
For all the hope of man you see below. 

" 'Tween hills of dawn and dark a little vale, 
A little day before the light shall fail, 

And then oblivion, soundless, swift and pale." 

O mystery of joy and all held dear ! 
O mystery of pain and death and fear ! 
O mystery of all we may not know ! 



♦Hillside Cemetery, Plainfield, New Jersey. 



LOVE WAS RED. 75 

And yet I scarcely long to have it less, 
I love the music of its awfulness, 

The solemn cadence of its rhythmic flow. 



It is right (saith Nature) to seek perfection, but 
wrong to attain it. 



LOVE WAS RED. 

OLOVE was red, and Love was ripe, 
And Love shone like the sun, 
And my brain went round with a sweet delight, 
As I sped away through the charmed night 
With the maid, my loved one. 

Her eyes shone bright till the stars went pale, 

Her hair was silk-of-gold, 
Her cheeks were hot with the blushing blood, 
Her lips were full, like the red rose-bud, 

Her voice was rich and bold. 

" Come ! love of mine," she sweetly said, 

" And bear me far away 
Upon your steed so strong and fleet, 
Away thro' the moonlight, weird and sweet, 

Long miles ere break of day ! 

" For my home is not a home to me, 

My parents are cold and stern ; 
My soul revolts at this tyranny ! 
O take me hence, for I would be free ! 

With love for you I burn ! " 



76 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

My mare stood under the linden tree — 

Black as a flashing coal — 
And she pawed the ground as she saw us come, 
Whinneying low a glad welcome, 

As tho' the maid were her foal. 

I placed my love on a pillion soft, 

With one white arm she clung — 
Her warm breath played athwart my cheek 
And words of love in my ear did speak — 

Ah me ! — our hearts were young. 

Afar we fled through that moony night, 

And landscapes strange and still ; 
And the hills rose up and the hills sank down, 
As we galloped on past waste and town, 
Till midnight clocks did peal. 

We reined, at last, in a forest lone — 

My cloak was wide and warm ; 
Where love is pure and love is real, 
Where hearts are warm and hearts are leal, 

What matters a bond, or form ? 

Our priest was Love who gave the ring — 

The circle of joy complete — 
By Nature's rites our souls were wed ; 
And the stars looked down on our sylvan bed 

And danced with twinkling feet. 

Yea, holier far than prayer of priest 

Is the maiden's kiss of love ; 
And the faith of a true and sincere man 
Was never yet helped by Statute's plan 

Where Liberty smiled above. 



IN A PRISM. 77 



HOMELESS. 

WHOSO hath home hath hope, 
A wall of courage at his back, 
A coigne of vantage for his feet, 
And for his head a rest. 

Whoso hath home hath hope: 
The beasts upon the thousand hills 
Have all and one a cuddling place, 
A hole or nest for each. 



Whoso home hath none is sadder than a beast, 
As poor as Christ, and lonelier than a fox. 



IN A PRISM. 

WOULD write me a poem to-night, 
Gemmed with beautiful words; 
But of what, 
I know not; 
I have only the impulse aright, 

The passion to sing, 

Like the waves and the birds; 

And the thought 

Is not clear, 

Nor the vision to the seer, 



78 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

But I write 

As one might 

In prophecy 

Unsought, 
And I think, it may be, 
As bards of minstrelsy 
Improvise. 

Arise, 
O my soul, 
Come out ! 
There is music in thy brain 
Like the rain; 

Like the laugh 
And the sip 
Of the lip 
Of the wave 
On the sand. 
It is faint, like the mist, 

And it turns 
Like the wind that we list, 
And it burns 
Like the flush of the flame in the womb 
Of the time when the daytime is not. 

I sat on the ground 
To-day, 
With a hound; 
And he was the brother of me. 
Exceedingly 
Beautiful were his eyes; 
Gentle and merry and brown. 
Ah it was sweet to be down 
On a level with him and all things there 
In the grass. 



JN A PRISM. 79 

We, who are tall, 
How much of pleasure we pass ! 
Of the joy which the little and earth-close know ! 
Is it not so ? 

There is place for me, 
Discovery, 
Wonder, adventure and mystery, 
In the forests of ragweed and clover, 
In the silvas of the grass; 
Where the beetles roam, 
And the butterfly hovereth over, 
The humming-bird is ruby lightning and thunder, 
The toad is a gnome, 
The pebble a rock, 
The harlequin-spider swings his silvery net, 
Dew-wet 
On the fret, 
And to us, thereunder, 
The tall lily is goodlier than the palm. 

O soul, 
There is room ! 
We are free ! 
In the inness of things there is room, 
There is room in the wind and the sea, 
There is room in the crowds of the tree, 
In the multitudes of the grass. 
There is welcome for me 
In the beauty of things; 
In the sunset 
I am home. 

Did you ever swim in the sky? 
Often have I, 



80 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

And hung in the air like a kite, 
I could turn to the left or the right, 
And go 
Or high or low 
In the atmosphere 
Of crystal. 
Come up with me there ! 
We will fly 
To the top of the purple cloud 
Where the shrill hawk circles; 
We will sit on the golden verge; 
We will feel the urge 
Of the winds of the world; 
We will see the crimson stain the side 
Of the cliffs we ride; 
We will have sight, 
Aright, 
Like the high gods, 
Tall, 
Overall. 

soul, 

1 surmise 

We are too achromatic. 
Would it not be wise, 
Sometimes, 
To live in radiant rainbows ? 
In the Iris-land perfume is food, 
Music is breath, 
Color is sight, 
The winds are what eloquence saith; 
Love is the moon of the night, 
Glamour her light; 
For stars, beautiful eyes, 



EPICUREAN. 81 

And for sunrise 

A smile. 

O would 
It not, for a while, 

Be well 

To dwell 
In a prism ? 



EPICUREAN. 

H ! — sing glad heart, sing 
Thy pean; — 
There is but one wisdom, even joy 
And kindly wishing ! 
Well saith the Epicurean: — 
To-day be happy, for to-morrow die 
Thou must. 
Therefore to-day is glad perfectness of life, 

Breath, 
Innocence, and happy-hearted laughter, 
With manly earnestness of strife; 
To-morrow cometh sweet Death, 
The blending with the dear brown dust, 
And — how think you ? — nothing after? 



A 1 



82 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



SELF. 

TO be sufficient unto self ! — to me, 
Who fain would stand on purest heights 
serene, 

Where suns rise first, sink last, and all is clean, 
This seems the acme of philosophy, 
The one great need of whoso would be free: 

Mine own sure friend, no matter how demean 

My fellow selves, nor what may come between, 
I know no lack of love, nor sympathy. 
With reverence still before myself to stand, 

To learn, to love, to honor all therein, 

Knowing self-injury alone as sin, 
And sin to others, sin at second-hand — 
I deem a sane man's thought, and therefore grand, 

The attitude of one whom truth helps win. 



I DRIFTED LIKE A WIND-BLOWN 
LEAF TO-DAY. 

I DRIFTED like a wind-blown leaf to-day, 
Along a rambling, country, back-roadway, 
Whose unkempt banks and bed as red as rust, 
And white stones scattered in its ruddy dust, 
Were toned with autumn sunlight's mellow ray, 
That soft, on all things like a glamour lay, 
And russet hue of leaves, which every gust 
Of wind sent whirling with imperious must. 



A FACE SERENE. 83 

A giant mastiff, gentle, by my side, 
With lion-front and hue of eye and hide, 
Was comrade with me, happy, wandering there, 
Blown onward by the wanton piercing air, 
Marking with me, approved, the gray and green 
Of cedars and of farmsteads quaint that flanked 
the scene. 



A FACE SERENE. 

I WOULD my face were as a god's in mien, 
Not proud, nor pitiless, nor taint with scorn, 
But calm, illuminate with joy inborn; 
The face of one whose eyes to smile are seen 
As deep, still fountains, crystal-clear and clean, 
Hold visions sweet of blue-sky peace 'mid thorn 
And crag of rudest wilderness, uptorn; 
"Self peace! — To others peace!" from depths 

serene. 
Ah ! beautiful are lips that restful move, 

And strong, smooth brows that fairly, calmly 
think, 
And gentle eyes whose courage is to death; 
The fair, strong features whoso sees must love, 
The firm, strong hands that with yours truly link, 
The pleasant mouth whence cometh Truth's 
sweet breath. 



84 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



EVENING. 

A PLAQUE of gold, up slips the moon 
Above the shadeful eastern hills; 
Far-floating, like a big balloon, 
Its pale light crimping on the rills. 

The little stars come twitching out, 

Like spiders on a sky-blue wall, 
Twinkling their little legs about — 

See there ! — that one just had a fall. 

Each firefly strikes his little light 
And joins him to the gay quadrille; 

Brisk, eager bats flap through the night; 
We all receipt mosquitoes' bill. 

The whip-poor-will's clear sounding note 
Comes echoing from the black-caved wood 

Where great, wise owls silent float, 
Or screech and hoot in comic mood. 



The oars dip softly in the mere, 

A girl's light laugh thrills on the breeze, 

Rich, murmuring tones come to the ear — 
What import have such sounds as these? 

The wavelets ripple by the prow, 
The moonbeams sparkle on her hair, 

His form is bending toward her now, 
And — we had better leave them there. 



A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 85 



A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 

DEAREST love of mine ! 
Thou lovest not to kill, 
But it must be 
That cruelty 
Is deep in thee. 
For oft thy moods incline 
My heart to spill, 
My hopes to tease. 

Though all thy charms so please, 

I can not hope for ease 

With thee, but pain, 

For it is plain 

Thy sweet eyes find delight 

In my sad plight 

And baffled suit. 

The fruit 

Of Tantalus 

Thy grace 

For all my prayer; 

With half-averted face, 

And smiling eye, 

Thou, careless, 

Hearest my sigh, 

And hold, 

O beautiful ! but cold, 

My love in light esteem — 

Ah, foolishly I dream ! — 

Thou wilt not spare. 



86 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

O pity me, 

For it must be 

That I should so love thee ! 

Man cannot 'scape his fate, 

Nor soon, nor late, 

Be other than he must. 



And yet I trust 

And dare to hope ; 

Before me there doth ope, 

Like as the mirage, fair, might cheat the sight 

Of one upon the desert sand, 

Such vistas of delight, 

With groves of peace, 

And springs of calm content, 

As make me raptured stand, 

And give me no surcease 

Of longings, theeward spent. 

I weary thee 

With all these plaintive moans, 

And this my love-sick air ; 

And yet so dreamily 

Thou listenest my tones, 

And eke my tender prayer, 

That I may not forbear, — 

I am not wont to supplicate, 
But such is now my fate ! 

Ah, Soul within my soul ! 
O Heart-beat of my heart ! 
If we must live apart 
There is no perfect anywhere. 
And all my days shall wear 



A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 87 

This sorrow like a thorn, 
And all fields shall me warn : 
"Yea, this too must be borne " — 
What shall me then console ! 

Presumptious is my love, 
Thou art so much above, 
So better, everyway, than I, 
And yet I cannot still this cry, 
My great need makes me bold, 
I may not rest my heart 
Till all of it is told. 

My love hath this one art 
Of poetry ; 

I needs must sing to thee : 
Most like the love-smit bird, 
Whose ardent notes are heard, 
From shaken throat, elate, 
Imploring, wooingly, 
His coy, reluctant mate. 

O love, we are so near 

In every hope and fear, 

In every dream and thought, 

And all that thou dost state 

Hath kindredship so clear 

To somewhat I have wrought, 

That I am moved to build, 

Audaciously, 

Whilst thou art kind to me, 

Before thy sight 

The visions that I see 

With pleasuance filled 

Of our delight. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



I meet thee, O my fair, 

In vernal woods, 

Among the birds, 

And note the soft surprise 

Leap to thy cheek, 

The lovely lips that speak, 

And eloquent, sad eyes. 

We go a-rambling there, 

The trees among 

And emerald fields, 

Where blades and buds are young, 

The day is young, 

The year, 

The flowers that have upsprung. 

And we in heart, my dear. 

Like children, so we stand, 

Hand clasped in hand, 

Beside the forest pool, 

Or gather mosses, cool, 

Among the ferns ; 

Or take the devious turns 

Which ever hath 

A woodland path. 

While woodsy fragrance yields 

From leaves, damp mold, or brake, 

At every step we take. 

I gather flowers there 

To twine within thy hair, 

And bring thee guerdon, strange, 

Of lichen, toadstool, 

Frond, 



A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 

The bleached tortoise-shell, 
The club-moss from the pond, 
The Indian-pipe's pale bell, 
And such like simple spoil 
Of woodland range 
And sylvan soil. 

For thou art good to me, 
Thy tones are sweet, 
(On this our holiday 
And treat), 

Thy features, erst so sad, 
Wear now no care, 
For Nature's sympathy 
And, it mayhap, my own, 
Hath ta'en all away, 
And left thee glad 
With joy in life alone. 

I lead thee to a seat 
On fallen log 
And cast me at thy feet — 
The blackbirds whistle sweet 
Around the bog — 
And, when I lift mine eyes 
I see thy dear face there, 
Bent down as from the skies — 
My angel ! — true and fair. 
* * * * 

'Tis slumberous afternoon 

In June, 

And I, in easy chair, 

Read thee a pleasant tale ; 

Swinging thy hammock, where, 



90 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Beneath the shadeful trees, 

All murmurous with bees, 

The languid calm of summer thro' us thrills. 






The banks within the vale 

Quiver with heat ; 

The distant hills, 

From our breeze-drawn retreat, 

Before thy dreamy gaze, 

Melt in an azure haze. 

A-swing 

With gentlest motioning, 

At ease, 

Thou, upward, through the trees, 

Perceivest swallows twittering fly 

With fluttering wing, 

And graceful dip and spring, 

Against the dark-blue sky ; 

While Alp-clouds pile them high 

Within the widening West. 

Lo, all is Sabbath rest ! 

And yet 

Holds threat 

Of thunder by and by, 

When Night, 

With Shadow, draweth nigh 

To fright 

The Light 

And put out sight. 



I sit beside thee, dear, 
And hold thy hand ; 



A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 91 

We speak not any word, 
For all the night is grand 
With flames we do not fear, 
And over all is heard 
The thunder's breaking roar, 
And rushing, swift downpour 
Upon the roofs of rain. 

We feel the solemn charm 
Of midnight and of storm — 
An organ strain — 
And are as one in twain, 
For thou art close to me, 
Reclining on my breast, 
And in my sphere of calm 
Is all thy soul at rest. 

A gently stroking hand 

Hath loosed fatigue's close band, 

And drowsy fancies creep 

Upon the sense, 

Like as a little child, 

Within some sure defence 

Of sheltering arms, 

Secure from all alarms , 

To Dreamland is beguiled, 

Thou art a-nest. 

The thunder's muttering threat 

Dies far away ; 

Upon the mountains wet 

Its echoes play ; 

I lie awake and hear 

The gentle rain 

Soft beating on the roof 

And window pane ; 



92 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

I may not sleep at all 

For deep content, 

For ended is my call, 

Thou art no more aloof, 

My loss hath turned to gain, 

And all my breast 

Is with fair locks besprent, 

Where thy dear head is pressed, 

In breathings soft and deep, 

Of utter sleep. 



BALLAD OF THE GREEN, GREEN 

SEA. 

1MET a milk-white woman there, 
Down in the depths of the green, green sea, 
Wrapped in a net of her red-gold hair — 
She threw its mantle over me. 

Her breasts like great foam-bubbles were, 
Down in the depths of the green, green sea, 

And pearls were strung on her red-gold hair, 
In the woven net that compassed me. 

" O whence come you that seek me here, 
Down in the depths of the green, green sea ? " 

" I am a dead man, drowned anear ; 
O who are you that speaks to me ? " 

Her eyes were blue as the deep water, 
With a phosphor gleam thro' the green sea, — 

A wonderful, beautiful sea-daughter, 
Swaying and smiling there at me. 



BALLAD OF THE GREEN SEA. 93 

" O I was drowned an hundred years 

Ago, in the depths of the green sea, 
And all these pearls are all my tears, 

And in this net I drownded me. 

"An hundred years ago we sailed, 
Out over the depths of this green sea ; 

A corsair crew — O fate bewailed ! — 
Struck us and slew all souls but me. 

"And me they stript to taste my shame, 

And wove a net of my hair on me, 
I 'scaped, and leapt like a blushing flame 

Into the depths of the green, green sea. 

"Now you have come to be my love, 
Down in the depths of this green, green sea, 

To sleep in a cave in a coral grove — 
O come, dear love, and lie with me ! " 

She wrapped me then in her mesh of hair, 
Down in the depths of the green, green sea ; 

A woman's tress is stronger than prayer, 
And never a prayer escaped me. 

Now happy the lives of us so dead, 
Down in the depths of the green, green sea ; 

Where still, slow currents smooth our bed, 
And I hold her, and she holds me. 



94 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE LATTER DAYS. 

OH cold and blithe are the latter days, 
When the winds go wandering round and 
round, 
With the brown leaves drifting, nowhere bound, 
And the skies are pale, and the hills a-haze, 
And the rabbit leapeth before the hound. 

The woods meseemeth a shipping's spars, 

From the dead-leaf sea which the world hath 

drowned, — 
If I were dead would my soul be found, 
Playmate of winds and the dancing stars, 
Tumbling the dead leaves over the ground ? 



ONE HAPPY HOUR. 

ONE happy hour, one afternoon, 
I lay in my boat on the open bay, 
Cradled and rocked by the rythmic sway 
Of lapping and laughing waves at play, 
Dreaming and dreaming whatever I would. 

With pulses tripping a pleasant tune, 
As young as ever, and life as fair, 
A boy, on my back, with never a care, 
Drinking the joy of the salt-sweet air— 
"Live in the present, for Life is good ! " 






YOU STOOD. 95 



CHOCOLATE. 

SWEET like a child, but wise, so wise ; 
A little brown woman with bright brown 
eyes ; 
Piquant and charming ; magical bands 
Weaving with eloquent, soft little hands, 

Daintily, tenderly ; merry and sweet ; 
Smiling and smiling from eyelash to feet ; — 
Closer and closer, ever, to thee, — 
O little brown woman, why winnest thou me ? 



YOU STOOD. 

YOU stood a sweet, still statue, looking down 
To see him pass ; the while your woman's 
heart 
With him went too, and all your vibrant soul 
Swung struggling with strange moods, and yet no 

word 
Nor sign — " Good-bye ! " — O irony of Fate ! 

So might some lute, most daintily attuned 
To lays of love, in soundless grief perceive 
The only hand which knew the touch to strike 
Its waiting music out to life, withdrawn : — 



96 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Come back ! O touch me once again ! Come 
back ! 

****** 

O wonderful and sweet ; why should you love him 
so ! 



Poetry is the rhythmical interpretation and ex- 
pression of charm. 



A LARGER LIFE. 

WAKE to the dawn of a Larger Life, 
Sleepers dull in the Night of Now ; 
Beat your hearts to a wider strife, 

Build your thought in a broader brow ! 

For the hills are high that hold the sky, 
And the waters are wide that wash the world, 

And the breaths of all men, that live or die, 
The winds have given and caught and whirled. 

Be free and conscious of all you are, 

Dignity and a selfness great, 
Life at one with the farthest star, 

With all of Nature in every state ! 

For the hills are high that hold the sky, 
And the waters are wide that wash the world, 

And the breaths of all ■men, yon and /, 
Forever and ever the ivinds have hurled. 



GREA TNESS. 97 



GREATNESS. 

SHALL a man always long for greatness and yet 
never attain it ? 
Shall he spend the treasure years of his life in 

training for great battles, 
And then see his heart eaten with rust, 
His hands soften with sloth ? 
Shall he lie like a log on the beach, 
Stranded out of the currents of the great sea, for- 
ever? 

Nay, it matters not ! — 

For this is greatness to be always ready for it. 

It is not the great deed that makes the great man, 

The deed is but the outward sign, 

Not greatness but the publication of it ; 

For though the man be stripped, dumb, paralyzed, 

He can still be great. 

Greatness inheres in the great thought, the clear 
purpose, the serene poise, the wide view, the 
overlook ; 

In individuality, ability, reserve force, knack, cour- 
age, knowledge ; 

.Not in what you have done, but in what you can 
and will do if need come. 

The cannon may not speak for a decade, 

But, if it be loaded, 

It is always sublime, deadly, terrible. 

****** 

When the time comes — ! 



98 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



CRANFORD WATER. 

AN ink-black flow beneath November's gray 
And serious sky : — upon it, as I stay 
My listless footstep on a bridge, I spy 
A dead leaf, sapless, drifting slowly by — 
Still stream, brown leaf, bare branches pointing 

high! 
And musing much I wend my aimless way. 



All loves inspire — weak loves vanity and a will- 
ingness to deceive ; great loves nobility and a 
passion to deserve. 



PLACE ME AGAIN, I PRAY, GREAT 
FATE! 

PLACE me again, I pray, great Fate, 
Beside a nature broad and grave and sweet ! 
To all my nobler thirsts and passions mate ; 
Inspired and sane again, great Fate, 
Within the realm of some soul-queen, so great 

That Love himself, page-like, waits at her feet, 
O place me once again, great Fate, 

Beside a nature broad and grave and sweet ! 



A SOUVENIR VILLANELLE. 99 



A SOUVENIR VILLANELLE. 

IN an open boat on a winding stream, 
Lilies and flags and a flashing sun — 
Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 

Souvenirs fit for a poet's theme, 

Gather we here where the ripples run 
In an open boat on a winding stream. 

Flowers and friends that we hold in esteem, 

Shall we remember when all is done ? 
Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 

Life is for all but a floating dream 

(Tallied by trophies, memory won,) 
In an open boat on a winding stream. 

Threat of storm and a bright sunbeam 

(How ends the voyage when once begun ?)- 
Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 

Are real things fairest, or things that seem ? 

Shall we look back upon this one ? — 
In an open boat on a winding stream ? — 
Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. 

BEYOND lies a valley of silence, 
Clear night without tempest or star, 
Naught holding but darkness and stillness, 
And calmness that nothing can mar. 

We go to that valley of silence, 
Days happy or sad bear us on, 

Repose in that valley of silence, 

When joyance and sadness are done. 

Peace, peaceful that valley of silence, 
Full of great words ever unsaid; 

Pure silence, clear calmness, real resting — 
Sweet echoless vale of the dead. 



THE LITTLE BROWN OWL. 

THE little brown owl 
That sat in the tree — 
With great, gold eyes 
He looked at me. 

He laughed "Ho-Ho!" And I laughed "He- 
He!" 
Arthat little brown owl that sat in the tree. 

The little brown owl, 

That sat in the tree, 
With gold-black eyes 

Winked thrice at me. 



TRIOLET. 101 

He laughed " Ho-Ho ! " and I laughed " He-He !" 
For I thought him a droll bird, certainlie. 

That little brown owl, 

That sat in the tree, 
Seemed over-wise 

Exceedinglie. 

But he laughed "Ho-Ho!" and I laughed "He- 
He!" 
At the solemn face he made in the tree. 

O little brown owl, 

Tell me, prithee, 
Why art thou so 

Solemcholie ? 

But he laughed " Ho-Ho !" till I laughed "He- 
He!" 
And he spake me no more for a veritie. 



TRIOLET. 

TO lie on one's back and look at the sky, 
Up through the branches and leaves of green — 
Why, I used to do that when only so high ! 
Lie on my back and look up at the sky, 
At the white and the blue, and wish I could fly. 

It gives one a feeling so great and serene, 
To lie on one's back and gaze at the sky, 
Up through the branches and leaves of green. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



OF AUTUMN WINE. 

OF autumn wine, sweet friends, I fain would 
sing; 
That golden nectar, ether strained, doth sting 
My nerves, intoxicate, to brighter bliss 
Of brighter dreams than Madjoon slaves e'er 
wis 
When from their pipes the white, slow smoke doth 
ring. 

That topaz-hearted, amber drink forth bring 
In crystal, variant-dyed by leaves a-swing, 
While dreamily we drain the bowls we kiss 
Of autumn wine. 

About our halls an azure haze doth cling, 
And on our walls are vagrant birds, whistling 
In music clear, their farewell songs — 'tis this 
That bids me mind that somewhat we must miss 
For every draught we quaff, with heedless fling, 
Of autumn wine. 



THE DISINHERITED. 103 



THE DISINHERITED. 

THEY cluster at every corner; 
They wearily pace the land; 
Their starving eyes devour each loaf ; 
They stretch the begging hand. 

They are hungry and sick and tired; 

Their bleeding footsteps lag; 
My brothers ! — and none to help them ! 

Their nakedness mocked with a rag ! 

They bake, and others have eaten; 

They burn, but others are warm; 
They build, but their heads, unsheltered, 

Are bare to the pitiless storm. 

They till, but the crop goes from them; 

They reap, but "The Harvest Home" 
Means to them that their product is stolen; 

They brew, and taste but the foam. 

Ah God ! — how sadly they call Thee; 

If Thou wert, Thou couldst not withstand; 
But always the wicked have triumphed; 

The cunning and strong rule the land. 

The hearts of the mothers are breaking; 

The daughters are bedded with shame; 
The fathers are brutish with labor; 

The thoughts of the sons are a flame. 



io4 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

And Hatred and Arson and Murder, 
Like demons they beckon and tempt, 

The hand to the sword is outreaching — 
Blood ! Blood ! — O can nothing exempt ! 

O Wisdom be instant and help us ! — 
Quick rearing thy radiant crest — 

O brothers, the sword is a traitor! 
The calm, thoughtful methods are best. 

The way of the wise is the best, 

Which thinkers have pondered and planned; 
The Gordian tangles are slipping — 

Behold ! — your release is at hand. 



LOVE IS A RIDDLE. 

LOVE came to me with a new-appearing head : 
" I see you do not know me," Love said, 
"But I have many forms, and in no one am I 

altogether wed." 
" You are truly very strange, Love," said I, 
"You are never twice alike, and I cannot tell the 

why. 
Tell me, sweet Love, are you always thus unlike 

and appareled differently ? " 
" Always," said Love, "lest men weary of me, 
Lest with limits of 'I know,' they should hold me 

less than free." 



AN IDYL OF THE HILLS. 105 



AN IDYL OF THE BEACH. 

BLUE sky, and in the distance sails, no cloud ; 
A sea-bird winnowing the salty air ; 
A sweep of shining sand, a pebbly glare 
Beneath the sun ; foamed sea-dogs running loud 
Upon the beach, choked sullen back, half-cowed ; 
Knee-deep, two blue-clad women, walking there, 
And hand-in-hand, with shining, unbound hair, 
Their faces strong and sweet, their motions proud. 

A shell, upwashed, doth whisper in my ear : — 
"The sea— the sea hath washed full many hearts 
Their red love out, and left them cold and still." 

But sun and sparkling wind wot not of fear, 
Nor those fair figures happily free of arts, 
To-day is joy — let morrows work their will ! 



AN IDYL OF THE HILLS. 

I MIND me how I walked, one summer's day, 
Adown a hillside, straw-hat on my hair, 
Coat off and "pants" in boots, all debonair; 
Bearing two pails for someone going my way, 
Sunbonneted, in country girl's array, 
Demure, with plump hands berry-stained and 

bare 
And pleased shy eyes beneath a forehead fair, 
While something glad about us seemed to play. 



106 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Well-met, and not quite all an accident, 
Though we were willing each should think as 
much, 
She capped the knoll as I the gap unrailed, 
And subtle glamours all about us blent ; 
That braid of tawny hair I longed to touch, 
Yet loved the sweet half-fear that just pre- 
vailed. 



SUNSET ON HOPATCONG. 

PLACID, softly shaded as a dove's breast, 
A-tint with olive green where in it sink 
Dark shadows of the hills along its brink, 
As some gay bird is taken by its nest 
The wide lake fills with all the painted West ; 
All mingled stains and tender lights a-link, 
Pale gold and flame of rose and flush of pink, 
Gleam there ere droop the purple plumes to rest. 

Entranced, I see some red Nariticong 
Dip paddle in those pools of sunset stain, 
His wild dark eye, beneath his eagle plumes, 
Smiling a little at the chanted song 

His young squaw sings of happy hunting plain- 
A savage dream, which all the West illumes. 



The more we grow the more we become at peace 
with the Universe, the more tolerantly we regard 
the motives and motions of others, the more rest- 
fully and contentedly we yield ourselves, to our- 
selves, the less we fear from laissez /aire. 



FIREFLIES. 107 



FIREFLIES. 

I SAT at ease upon my latticed porch, 
While in the cloud-walled west the thunders 
smote 
Their muffled drums and up the east 'gan float, 
In globe of gold, sweet Luna's lover's torch, 
While bats and bugs that dread the midday's 
scorch, 
Flew, chirped and hummed ; and yonder in the 

womb 
Of very night the fireflies lit the gloom 
With sparks that mocked the lightning's sudden 
search. 

You bring unto my memory thrillingly, 
Beloved insects, fitfully luminous, 
Visions of sultry evenings long ago, 
When by your light I marked her cheeks deep 
glow, 
As in the night my passion amorous 
I breathed, and knew she listened willingly. 



io8 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE LODGE. 

BEHOLD it ! — thus : — a rude room ribbed with 
logs, 
A puncheon floor, a roof of riven boards ; 
A fire-cave mouth of rocks, whose flame affords 
The only, flickering light ; two guant, sad dogs 
Outstretched before, their dream of trails, banks, 

bogs, 
Deer, fox, tongue-lapping streams, most fit ac- 
cords 
With all that garniture of hunter's hoards — 
Horns, flasks, pelts, guns, dirks, tools and trapper's 
togs. 

The wood-wolf's bark wails wide beneath the 

moon, 
That coldly paints a path upon the lake 
To where the wild ducks sleep ; the screech-owl 

trills, 
All stealthily disports the barred raccoon, 
The bucks come down and splash beside the brake 
For on his robe snores now the One-who- Kills. 



SCARLET TANAGER. 

A SCARLET bird in a grass green lane, 
Glowing beneath the lilac-bloom ; 
In a crystal pool of the recent rain, 
Flinging pearls from a preening plume. 



/ DREAM IN THE AMBER A UTUMN. 109 



I DREAM IN THE AMBER AUTUMN. 

01 DREAM in the amber autumn, 
When the forests are filled with flame, 
And the haze hangs blue on the mountains, 
And the days march ever the same. 

When the palette is painted with sadness, 
Fire, sweetness and passionate breath, 

On a background of purple distance, 
With the blood-tints and ashes of death. 

When the wigwams of maize are awaiting 

For the spoiler to ravish their store, 
And the brown leaves are rustling and drifting — 

A Dead Sea with never a shore. 

I am tranced in the mellow misting 

Of the amorous atmosphere, 
And the slumberous warmth and languor 

Of the smoky and golden air. 

I am proud of the sumach and maple, 
Whose banners are crimson and gold 

Tho' the days of their winter are coming 
And the days of their summer are told. 

And I dream in at-one-ness with Nature, 
Stained through with her beauty and pain ; 

I am drunk with the wine of her color, 
With the pangs of her deaths I am slain. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



ANEW. 

A LISTENING stillness in the morning air, 
An air of night-shade, touched with coming 
fire, 
With cooling freshness weaning my desire, 
While new hopes paint their dawn on night's 

despair: 
I kiss the sad sweet lips that are so fair, 

I read the tear-bright eyes that bravely smile, 
And her dear, quivering mouth that would be- 
guile, 
And count that woman-courage more than prayer. 

O love, within this morning cool and new, 
A new day riseth fair within my view ! 
For you, to-day, I tread the purple crest 

Far, far above the passion-tainted plain; 
For you, henceforth, I do my manhood's best, 
And peace, like this bright dew, shall ease our 
pain. 



TO LIFT ONE'S HEAD. 

TO lift one's head on high, on high, 
And look beyond it all, afar, 
The petty strife and party cry, 
The shallow spites, that jar, and jar; 



TO LIFT ONE'S HEAD. 

The narrow thoughts of partizans, 

So pitiable and yet so proud, 
Self-deemed of truth the sole defence, 

The ear so shut, the mouth so loud. 

The stupid bounds of sect and clan 
That think their little worlds hold all; 

'Twould burst them to be large as man, 
And if they fail the heavens fall; 

The childish formulas of creed, 
Babe-guesses petrified in faith — 

" Oh weary, weary, weary breed ! — 
O give me room ! " — the free soul saith. 

I lift my head on high, on high, 

And look beyond it all, afar, 
To where the mountains touch the sky, 

And where the oceans beat the bar. 



In health the essential word is balance, the 
method, motion; exercise, thorough, searching, all- 
inclusive; for the body running is the perfect exer- 
cise, for the mind, writing. A good runner — a vig- 
orous, buoyant man; a good writer — a facile, well- 
educated man. In a nutshell — Verbum sat sapienti. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



A TROPIC HOPE. 

1H0LD, heart friends, a dream of years; 
A visioned hope, dim seen through fears. 

And this is how it dreams to me, 
This flower-enwreathed vagary: — 

A summer isle in tropic clime, 
With peaks volcanic, sharp, sublime, 

That stab from out the level sea 
And pierce the blue immensity 

Of perfect azure, arching clear, 

A wind- washed, sun-thrilled atmosphere; 

While at their feet a cirque of white 
And dazzling beach flames on the sight; 

Whence, landward, calls a thunderous moan, 
The sullen surf 's deep monotone, 

As curving, tumbling breakers roar, 
And, foamy-lipped, suck at the shore. 

And there, far up a mountain side, 
'Mid jungles, cliffs and vistas wide, 

(With bridle-path, a steepy stair, 
Rock-edging, twisting, half in air, 



A TROPIC HOPE. 113 

Upwinding from the vale below) 
A terrace hangs, whereto I go. 

For on that shelf is built my cot 

Of palm and cane, with roof inwrought 

Of thatched leaves; with vines, intwined, 
Which thatch and rafters joining bind; 

With wattled walls that frame and hold, 
And floor of smooth, down-beaten mold; 

With unglazed windows, opening wide 
Their shutters, that within may glide 

The fresh, bloom-scented wind-of-trade, 
To give cool hearts to noons of shade, 

When, in verandahs low and deep, 

My hammocks swing to dreamless sleep. 

My furniture my own hands make 
From knotted spoil of jungle brake, 

Jointed bamboo and lustrous woods 
Known but in tropic latitudes. 

My floor with Indian mats is spread, 
With netted guards swings free my bed. 

And, all about, barbaric spoil, 
Of seaside sport and jungle toil, 

Adorn floor, ceiling, or the side, 
Or on my shelves arranged abide: 



1 1 4 WIND- HA RP SONGS. 

Sea-beans and sponges, sea-shells rare, 
Shark-jaws and beauteous corals fair; 

A scarf of bark as fine as lace, 
A mottled tortoise carapace; 

The mailed coat of cayman grim, 
Flamingo-wing, and snake-fang slim; 

Great beetles, transfixed with a pin, 
A coteau sheathed in serpent skin; 

Machetas, keen, with heavy blade; 
Riatas, tough, of raw-hide braid; 

A rifle cased in porpoise hide, 

Fish rods, nets, harpoons, side by side; 

Spy-glasses, pistols, fossils, gum 
And reptiles bottled up in rum. 

With goodly pictures here and there, 
And books and papers everywhere. 

My house-cat is a petted snake, 
For fly-traps, lizard tongues I take. 

Above, a screaming parrot swings, 
Chased by a monkey through its rings. 

Withon my board cool sherbets plash 
In cups of gourd and calabash, 

'Mong Creole baskets heaped with fruit, 
Cassava leaves or arrow root, 



A TROPIC HOPE. 115 

Palm cabbage, sooth and delicate, 
Rich sweet potatoes, yams of weight ; 

The milk of goat or cocoa-nut, 
And honey combs of amber glut ; 

Delicious eggs my fowls have laid, 
And fish by baited hook betrayed. 

Without, my faithful dogs unite 

To guard my dwelling day and night. 

I have a cow, a pony, goats, 

And on the beach behold my boats ! 

Ah ! such as this is wealth indeed ; 

Fat grows Content where lean grows Need. 

Happy the eye that clearly sees 
The worth of wise simplicities ; 

Their wholesome comfort, sans pretence, 
Their pleasing of the artist sense. 

Eschew the love of luxury, 

The simple life makes whole and free. 

Beware the palace's thorned ease 
Welcome the cabin's homely peace. 



11. 



Around my home there stands a grove 
Of tropic palms and plants I love. 



i r 6 WIND- HA R P SONGS. 

The orange and the sprawling fig, 
The manihot, with tubers big ; 

Sweet grapes and olives rich with oil, 
Guava's fruit that asks no toil ; 

The palm of dates, and cocoa-nut, 

The banyan, whose strange limbs down-put 

An hundred trunks, instead of one, 
To bear its leaves against the sun ; 

Acacia-foliaged tamarind, 

The lilac-flowered Pride of Ind ; 

Banana, very tree of life, 

Plumed pampas-grass, each blade a knife ; 

The great silk-cotton's bole, butressed, 
The royal palm of heavenward crest ; 

The passion flower and fruit divine, 
The fragrant, fair vanilla vine ; 

The coy and shrinking mimosa 
The flesh preserving poypoya ; 

The woman-breast-like pomegranite, 
Coffee, mate and chocolate ; 

The cherimoya, luscious, sweet, 
Whoso which tastes must surely eat ; 

Pine-apples, sweet as lady lips 
When Creole kisses Cupid sips 



A TROPIC HOPE. 117 

In tropic-passioned ecstacy, 
In tropic bowers, by Carib sea ; 

Sweet lemons, limes and sapota, 
Custard-apple and magnolia. 

But ah ! my poem must not clog 
Its music with this catalogue. 

I will be brief and say but this 

Of these my Eden bowers of bliss : 

An hundred fruits and sweets are here, 
Where want comes not, nor famine near ; 

A thousand flowers bloom and scent 
The zephyrs 'neath my fruit-grove's tent 

Of wondrous foliage overthrown, 
With ropes of sunlight lacing down. 



About my grove sharp hedges fret 
Of needled Spanish bayonet ; 

Or fence of giant cacti, high 
A score of feet, tall cerei 

With candelabrum arms beset, 

Aflame with flowers when night-dews sweat. 

Or thousand-handed prickly pear, 
With cups of gold and weapons bare ; 



n8 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Or massive agaves ranked in rows 
Of mighty spears, defying foes. 

And here are arbors deftly made 
Of living bamboos, lattice-laid, 

Their feathery foliage green between, 
Bignonios netting close the screen. 

And here are hammocks, gently swayed 
Beneath the mango's perfect shade ; 

And here are paths of semi-gloom 
'Neath arching oleander's bloom ; 

And here are vistas fair and far — 
Inland, to mountain walls that bar, 

Upward, to peaks in clearest air, 
Downward — ah, dizzy ones, beware ! 

Seaward, o'er sweeps of boundless blue 
To where the sky line stops the view ; 

The mountain walls and valley beds 
The tumbling torrent's silvern threads ; 

The waves, the beach, the sails that pass- 
All subject to my eye and glass. 

Ah, faith !— it is a fair, fair dream, 

And foolish, too, my good friends deem ; 

But then we live our lives but once 
Each hath his bubble, sage or dunce, 



A MEMORY SWEET. 119 

And this is mine — then let me be ! 
Give me my isle, my tropic sea, 

My hut upon a mountain steep, 

My fruit groves where the trade winds sweep, 

These simple joys, wealth without pelf, 
My thoughts, my dreams, myself, myself. 



A MEMORY SWEET. 

I HAVE a memory, sweet and clear, 
Of a woman whose name was Rest ; 
Who folded me in with warm, strong arms 
Away from care and the world's alarms, 
Close down on her tranquil breast. 

I have a memory, clear and sweet, 
With never a thought that mars, 
Of tender lines 'round a sensitive mouth, 
Dark eyes that tell of the tropic South, 
And midnight hair with sheen of stars. 

I have a memory, still more sweet, 

Of her face aglow with joy, 
Of joy because she stands near me — 
Mon donx repose ! Ma chere cherie ! 

In our love there was no alloy. 

I have a memory, passing sweet, 
Of a dance that was Motion's rest ; 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Of our floating, 'neath the lovelight's gleam, 
On the eddy and swirl of music's stream 
Together, breast to breast. 

O memory sweet, 

O vision dear, 

O spirit, kind, 

From Love's bright sphere — 

Why am I by thy presence blest ? — 

My sweet Repose, my Love, my Rest. 



A KNIFE OF AGATE. 

LO ! — a paper knife you send me of the agate of 
Ute Pass, 
Smoky clouds and mossy branches in a crystal 

clear as glass, 
In my pocket bid me place it, use it for my daily 

need, 
'Tis a curio rare and dainty — thanks for it, dear 

friend, indeed ! 
But 'tis broken !— Well, I'll mend it— that shall be 

to us a sign 
In our friendship: Yours the giving, but the mend- 
ing must be mine 
Should it break — to heal so deftly that a scar shall 

scarce appear 
'Thwart the verdure of its mosses, on its field of 

agate clear. 



SO WE CARE NO T. 



SO WE CARE NOT. 

AH, sweet Life, you cheat us always when we 
put our trust in thee ; 
Only when we doubt and care not do you give us 

gear and fee ; 
Only when we flout and scorn you do you treat us 

tenderly ; 
Only when we build above you are we really rich 
and free. 

Like a woman, if you follow, she will turn and 

walk away ; 
If you plead her heart is hardened and she only 

answers "Nay; " 
If you laugh and look beyond her she will closely 

by you stay ; 
Let her find your heart is higher, she will court you 

every day. 

Seek for friends, and they forsake you ; live for 

love, you lose it all ; 
Live to love, and love will give you drink of ashes 

steeped in gall ; 
Build your own, and all will aid you, so you build 

not weak nor small, 
Love your own and all will bring you loving gifts 

to heap your hall. 



WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE MELODY. 

OSING me the melody, sweet and low, 
Of hearts that throb, of cheeks that glow, 
Of the world transformed by a light divine 
That out of beautiful eyes can shine. 

Let a note there be of this mystery, — 
How the hair on a girl's head witcheth me, 
How the touch of a soft hand sets a-thrill 
All the brain and nerves and the firm-set will. 

Let one rhyme sing of the sweet surprise 
When the lone heart mirrors in loving eyes, 
When out of the cold and dark there form 
Dear lips that kiss, dear hands so warm. 

Let a word be heard of the tenderness 
That a maid can show in a man's distress ; 
How all things else may a man forget — 
Not a lovelit eye with its lashes wet. 

O sing to me of this melody, 

Music and rhythm and harmony, 

Of hearts a-chime to the dancing joy 

That rings from the string of the archer boy. 



TWEN TV KISSES. 1 23 



THERE ARE LOVES AND LOVES. 

THERE are loves and loves that pass one by 
As light as birds in a summer sky, 
As sweet as flowers that quickly fade. 
As little dreams, made and unmade. 

Their memories linger — ah, how sweet ! 
But we hear no more their tripping feet ; 
The world laughs on, and we laugh too, 
But we sigh sometimes, as all must do. 

But loves there are, when we lay supine, 
Which suddenly lift, as with touch divine; 
And our lives grow rich with wealth untold, 
And our nerves as bowstrings, twanging bold. 

And these loves last, for their lines are deep; 
Their days are sun-full, their nights are sleep; 
With life they live, and they shape the breath 
That lingers last on the lips at death. 



TWENTY KISSES. 

TWENTY kisses on your cheek, 
Lady love, so fair; 
Blush and pallor, hide-and-seek, 
Prove them welcome there. 



124 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Twenty kisses on your throat, 
Dainty, round and white; 

Swelling soft as love-tides float 
Innocent delight. 

Twenty kisses on your lips — 
Little sweetheart, mine ! — 

As the bee its flower sips 
Thrills my mouth on thine. 

Twenty kisses on your hair — 
Little darling, sweet ! — 

Could my love print plainer there, 
I would kiss your feet ! 



MY SOUTH. 

RONDEL. 

MY sweet warm South, strange woman of the 
sun; 
With breath of soft, sad winds blown from her 
mouth, 
Dreamy with sighs; lovelier there is none — 
My sweet, warm South ! 

With bare,brown feet.bathed by perpetual youth, 
She leadeth me through all her bowers to run — 
By solemn swamps, still streams, and dunes of 
drouth. 



BLACK ROBIN. 125 

Lo ! — I am Northern, yet, wonderful one ! — 
I love her; crown her, seeing she allow'th, 

With jasmine gold her hair of night outspun — 
My sweet, warm South ! 



This moment hath its own joy. 



BLACK ROBIN. 

A WORD for you too, 
Robin, 
Black pony, 
Beautiful, 
Hard fighter; 

Many the sharp tussle we have had together, 
Many the flying gallop through the woods, 
Along the shore road, 

With glimpses through the trees of brown beach, 
white sails, and wide stretches of water. 

" Now boy ! — Come sir ! " 

" I will not ! " — Kicks, plunges, short-stops, shies, 
head-down, back-running, curb-jerks, white- 
foam, sweat, keen cuts of the rawhide and 
sharp words of command; — 

Brave boy ! 

Always beaten but never conquered: 

Yet, after all, I fancy you did not hate the man who 
would not be thrown or troubled; 



126 WIND- HARP SONGS. 

There was fighting friendship between us; 

When I patted your proud neck you would look as 

if you liked me; 
And you never took advantage of me when I threw 

the reins on your neck and trusted you; 
And I never struck you without warning; 
The gage of battle was always fairly given. 

" Here, take this apple ! " — 

Farewell Robin ! 

Stubborn, broad-browed, stout-hearted, fearful of 

nothing; 
Cunning rogue, 
Glossy fellow; 
We shall go no more together. 



A DREAM OF DREE. 

I WENT and spoke to the wrinkled tree — 
Tell me, friend, what life may be? 
Its green tongues whispered: Fates are three, 
Life, my lad, is a dream of dree. 

I said to the rocks — Can you tell me 
Whether life be a dream of dree ? 
Their echoes answered, mockingly, 
A dream — a dream — a dream — a dre — 

I climbed; the mountain air was free. 
Tell me, O hills, can this thing be ? 
Their shadows pointed silently : 
Mapped below was a dream of dree. 



THE SYL VAN SINGERS. 127 

I asked the plains the same query. 
They stretched away unansweringly. 
The pun was grim, but I could see, 
They made it plain — a dream of dree. 

I went and spake to the sounding sea, 
Its waves came on unendingly, 
Each as the last, and all agree 
The flow of life is a dream of dree. 

I questioned the heavens — Immensity 
Smiled down in tender pleasantry: 
It makes us blue, but a dream of dree 
Is life throughout infinity. 



THE SYLVAN SINGERS. 

SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY E. W. MC DOWELL. 

fTMS through the sylvan glades of Arcady 

1 A maid goes pacing, piping fitfully, 
Or singing little wood-songs, two or thee, 

Anent the reeds and myrtles, red-rose-blooms, 
The laurel glosses and the cypress glooms, 
The shifting sunlight which them all illumes. 

A maiden tall, fair-formed, and bannered with 
A silken flag of red-gold hair, like myth 
Of EJian, or the maids of wood god kith. 



128 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

At peace, akin with all the furtive throng 

Of wild-wood things she dreams them not a wrong, 

But prone upon the sward pipes them this song : — 

MAID SONG. 

O sweet the light on the mist-blue hill ; 
Sweet is the light on the laughing rill ; 
Clear on the rocks at the cavern door ; 
Warming the moss on the forest floor ; 
Pleasantly falling on nest and lair, 
Soft through the stream on the cataract stair. 

Sweet and soft and bright and clear, 
Sweet is the light and the light is here. 

( echo : 

Sweet — soft — bright and clear, 
Sweet — the light — the light is here ! ) 

Then with a flash and flutter of bright wings, 

A little bird himself before her flings, 

And lifting up his throat thus blithly sings : 

BIRD SONG. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet — 
Light, 

Light, 

Light ! 
Lips of music, 
Eyes so bright ; 
Sunshine hair, 
Shoulders white ; — 
O lady we love you, 
We wood-friends all ; 



THE SYL VAN SINGERS. 129 

We flutter above you, 
We whistle and call ! 
In your breast, 
There to nest, 
Would be sweet, 
Sweet, 
Sweet ! 
And the wood-blossoms leap from the prints of 

your feet, 
And the winds fall asleep in the net of your hair, 
And the dews never weep, but forget their despair 
When you walk where the moonbeams with you 
are so fair, 

Fair, 
Fair ! 
Clear, clear, clear is my voice ! 
Hear, hear, hear me rejoice ! 

Lady, we love you ! 
Lady we love you ! 

Lady we love you here ! 

( echo : 

Lady — love ! 

Lady — love you ! 
Lady, we love you here ! ) 



130 WIND-HARP SONGS. 



THE WORLD. 

FASHION, the world, society, to me 
These ever are as some brave board out- 
spread, 
Where men and women feign to feast, unfed ; 
Smiling and gay, yet holding in each eye 
The piteous glare of hunger's agony. 
Ah ! this alone is death, and these the dead ; 
And yet men call it " life " pitying, instead, 
The child-like soul that loves simplicity. 

A padded pomp, chill state, a gaslight glare, 
The bitter-sweet and dust of discontent, 
Soul-hunger and a secret none dare broach — 

These are thy wages, world, thy servants wear 
Upon their brows the stamp of manhood spent, 
'Lost innocence, and haunting, vague reproach. 



ONE MORE SONG. 131 



SOUL AND SOIL. 

FAIR the flower, 
But the roots are found 
In the rot, the grave, the ground; 
Its nutriment and need they draw 
From the corpses which they gnaw. 

So, 

Ebb and flow 

Beauty, power, life's sweet play, 

Chaos, weakness, sin, decay — 

Tips the balance either way, 

Rules the hour. 



ONE MORE SONG. 

I WILL sing one more song, 
Full of bold, bright music, 
The music of him of the glad eyes, the quick step ( 
the brave brow, the laughing lips, the frank 
look, the true word; 
The music of the free man. 

A song of daring thoughts, of high hopes, of fear- 
less faith; 
A song of youth; 



132 WIND-HARP SONGS. 

Of lilac skies, flakes of gold, and sunrise over the 

purple hills ; 
A song of morning; 
A song of children playing in the warm sand, 

spattering the water with bare feet; 
A song of seals sporting in the surf, with soft, 

loving eyes, barking like dogs; 
A song of bright peaks, thunder, and the long, 

quivering lightning; 
A song of dark waves, racing with the west wind, 

beating the rocks with a white foam; 
A song of sea gulls; 
A song of brilliant courage; 
A song of innocent love; 
A song of red flowers; 
A song of white birds against a blue sky; 
A song of a rock in the great sea which is always 

the same, 
Whether the waves waste themselves upon it, 
Or foam at its feet; 

Whether the ice arms it with glittering mail, 
Or the sun blisters it with angry heat; 
Whether the rain weeps over it, 
Or blue skies smile lovingly; 
Whether the birds scream hoarsely about it, 
Or come to it for rest and protection; 
It is always there, 
Calm, strong, beautiful: — 

" I am a rock, I have foundations, I believe in my- 
self; 

I stand alone, or I stand with you, but I stand 
steadfast; 

I am not troubled, I do not change — trust me ! " 











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